The Lily and the Lion
by ElGato44
Summary: Joan had been taught to despise the English. Prince Edward had been told to show no mercy towards the French. When the two heroes cross paths however... Some characters belong to Koei. M rating just in case
1. Part 1

The Lily and the Lion

The Lily and the Lion

Part 1

Joan of Arc placed her tell-tale flower in her dark blonde hair. The young girl looked at herself in the mirror; the morning sun began peaking across her soft face from the window. Joan mentally prepared herself for the future struggle that she thoroughly disliked, but had no choice but to participate. Many of the other officers including Bertrand du Guesclin felt that Joan was too emotional for war, but even the staunchest of her doubters could not deny the loyalty and integrity she evoked in her soldiers. Once she saved the city of Orleans her doubters were silenced and respected her loyalty.

"My Lady," came a voice shortly after a soft knock on the door to her quarters.

"Yes?" her soft voice rang. "Come in."

A knight entered, face shielded by a helmet. "I 'ave a mezzege from Lord Philippe of Burgundy," he handed her the letter and bowed, "Au revoir, my lady."

"Thank you," Joan nodded before he left. She hesitantly unfolded the message.

_Dear Madame,_

_Normandy is resting in your capable hands. Make certain to forestall any English advancement from the shores. Please meet me in Odon within a few hours to discuss other plans._

_-Philippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy; Governor of Flanders_

She gently placee the note on her bed, before kneeling prayer.

………………………………..

Joan of Arc and her division of soldiers marched the few miles from Pellerin to Odon. The air she breathed in seemed heavier and thicker, as nervousness caught up to her. She had never met the famed Duke of Burgundy but he had been praised all throughout France although the King of France had often been critical of his tactics. Her assistants and leaders took control of their specific regiments and led them to an outpost inside the fortress as Joan of Arc entered the central castle to castle to meet with Philippe le Bon.

"May I ask who presents yourself?" the white armored guard asked, blocking Joan's way from the grand hall.

"Joan of Arc," she answered and two guards stared at each other, "I am to have conference with the Duke of Burgundy."

The guard nodded and stepped out of her way, "Go on ahead, milady." The two guards bowed their heads as she passed them. She entered the hall while one guards announced to the conference, "Lady d'Arc presents herself!"

The officers surrounding a large oak table turned to stare. Joan strode forward with her head held high to hide the nervousness that churned underneath. She realized that there were many high ranking officers around the table, as well as a few mercenary leaders huddled in as well.

Her eyes found a tall man in a white fur cape with long, blond wavy hair tied in the back and a faint blond wispy mustache. He had narrow kind eyes that were a deep blue.

"Philippe le Bon?" she asked bowing. The man bowed in turn, "I am, mademoiselle. Please have a seat."

He motioned to a chair beside a woman with a thin drapery cascading over her brown hair, "Zis is my assistant, Marie. She is loyal although overzealous sometimes," he chuckled slightly when Marie gave him a faint harmless glare, "I am so to protect you, my Lord."

"Marie will be leading a split force along the eastern shoreline while you, Lady of Arc, will lead your troops along the western shoreline. I don't want any aggressors on the shoreline; or at all. This is going to be truly a defense phase. No aggressiveness. That includes _you _Du Guesclin," le Bon directed at a short chubby man with a boyish face. He groaned, "But, my lord, 'ill we not just stare at each ozere? We 'ave to take ze offensive at some point."

Philippe sighed, "And we will, but not now. Anyway, I apologize to the mercenary contingent," he turned to two mercenary brothers; one small and had a fiery gleam in his eye, the other larger with an eased calm face, "I 'ave to separate you two. One will fight under Joan's jurisdiction, and we need the other to aid Marie's troops. We have no idea how much control the English has on the shoreline of Normandy."

"What about the internal front?" another officer asked.

"I'm not as worried about the internal front. The English has less substantial control of fortresses internally. Our main concern is more English troops coming in. Other forces must defend the inner fortresses, but be prepared to support the shoreline forces."

"Ze shoreline would be dangerous," the smaller mercenary commented, "Zey 'ave hired a deadly mercenary to watch over three units of troops. It is said that any unit he commands run into battle with the strength of wild beasts."

"John Hawkwood?" Marie asked. The mercenary shook his head, "No, he's…he's…zis mercenary is downright frightening. Just watch your backs. You'll never know where he'll turn up."

"Thank you," le Bon agreed, "Be watchful…"

"Who is he?" an officer leaned forward.

"We never found his name," came the other mercenary's deep calm voice, "He is not hard to miss; if you see him. He uses the foliage to his advantage. He can be practically invisible. I once saw him take out two units…by himself just by the element of surprise."

Two younger officers stared at each other swallowing hard.

"Either way, be on your guard," Philippe le Bon warned as he dismissed some of the officers, except for Joan, Marie and the two mercenaries. Philippe heaved back in his chair, rubbing his temples, "I am beginning to despise mercenaries. Sorry, "he apologized to the mercenary brothers before resuming, "Joan, I want you to reinforce most of the fortresses along your area. Marie, if you see any English advances, send a scout to one of the nearby divisions and another to me. I know the English will send at least one division across the English Channel. I believe that is all for now. May the lord keep you."

The four of them stood up and bowed before turning to leave the castle.

"Hold on, Lady of Arc," le Bon stopped her," I would like to speak with you privately." He motioned for her to sit back down again. She obeyed.

"What do you think?" Philippe asked vaguely.

"About what my lord?"

"About this war. How do you feel you should approach it?"

Joan's heart dropped. Did he doubt her abilities too? But that couldn't be it. He wouldn't have assigned her to such an important position if he doubted her.

"The reason why I am asking is because I want us to reach an understanding on how _I_ go through this war," he paused. "I personally have nothing against the English. I have many fine friends in England and my sister is the wife of the Duke of Albany, who is a very kind man indeed. Upon further investigation and examination I found that this war is not between France and England rather it is between the King of France and the King of England, over something that could be resolved over a game of chess. All the others, including you and me are caught up in their webs."

"Pardon, sir, but I do not fight because of ze king, I fight for France."

Le Bon smiled and shook his head. "For France to gain what? Glroy? Freedom? France and England had an equal understanding until this blood feud clouded both kings' judgments. I entrust you to think of the English as people who suffer the same fate as all of us Frenchmen do. Our people are only divided by a channel but England has helped us in trade especially in Flanders, just as we helped him. Essentially, we are all brothers and sisters. I entreat you, my lady, to not to forget that."

"My lord," Joan said sternly, "is that why the King disagrees with your diplomacy in Flanders? Because they enforce a more peaceful resolution?"

Le Bon looked away, ashamed. "That is the only thing that can save France. Do not doubt me, my lady; I will fight on the side of France 'till ze death. But I trust very few in the dealings of war, because I know that they fight ze English as if ze English were wild, mindless beasts. They never consider the fact that every opponent they face is human, has a wife, and has a home, and children possibly. Officers on both sides constantly ignore that fact that I see in every knight, every soldier I fight. On hindsight that is probably why I am so...weak."

Joan shook her head, "I don't see you as weak. I…I'm afraid that I too am criticized for my…emotional ties in war."

Le Bon gave out a huff of dry laughter, "I guess we have similar understandings then… My only hope is that the kings will reach an understanding."

He stroked his chin in thought, "But only time will tell. Now, I wish you luck," he bowed and Joan bowed in return.

Joan led her troops on a one day march from Odon to Cherbourg. They were hindered by rain and many of the dipping slopes of the terrain were flooded so the supply wagons had trouble getting across. On the morning her troops reached Cherbourg, the sun shone brightly on the dew-glistened hills. Remnants of rain lightly dripped off the trees. The men marched with a lighter step as the fortress of Cherbourg came closer and closer into view.

The base commander rode out and greeted her, "Mademoiselle, welcome to Cherbourg."

The soldiers from the base helped Joan and her soldiers get settled in and they waited for the mercenary force led by the mercenary brother named Georges to arrive. It didn't take long. Joan felt relaxed as her men became settled comfortably in and around Cherbourg and the citizens showed tremendous respect when a group walked the streets. Night peacefully came and Joan nestled herself comfortably in her bed after her prayers.

The next few days came without much excitement. Joan could tell that her knights were becoming restless but remained well mannered. The warriors occupied themselves by roaming the streets, talking; others went on deer hunts or fishing in a nearby pond. Joan on one day saw a knight stroll the streets. The citizens turned and paused for a moment. A little boy raced out his mothers' grasp towards the knight. He stared at the faceless soldier in wonder before reaching his arms up. The knight hesitated but he lifted the little boy safely in his arms so the boy could touch his helmet. Joan smiled at the soft hearted scene and resumed her stroll.

The next day wasn't as beautiful as the others. It poured rain and the streets were empty save for a few soldiers. Joan rode outside the fortress to check on her other soldiers. They sat inside their tents trying to stay dry, but as she began to turn back, Georges and his troops came sprinting down the hill towards her.

"Lady of Arc!" he yelled moderately panicked, "A scout just informed me…the English…were sighted northwest of here!"

The soldiers peeked out of their tents, when they heard the news. Joan looked back at her men; they gripped their weapons tightly, standing upright, ready for action. She swallowed.

"All advance units will come with me! Other forces will protect Cherbourg!" Joan commanded. The soldiers gave a loud roar of excitement raising their weapons high in the air.

Joan of Arc and her troops marched some twelve miles northwest of Cherbourg, stationing themselves in a simple formation, ready for any sign of English troops. Scouts have all reported that the English were heading her way, so she decided to remain still and wait for the English forces to come to her. The rain and mist made it hard to see all the way across the field. 'Any minute now…' she reiterated in her head. Joan thought she heard a noise, and narrowed her eyes, staring at the opaque curtain of mist on the other side. Slowly, figures became recognizable, but before she knew it a whole mass of black and red soldiers, on foot and on horse, appeared running and galloping out of the mist.

Immediately, she noticed a tall young man in full jet black armor and long straight black hair that reached beyond his shoulders. He was strapping and intimidating upon his black horse, holding his lance and leading the forces across the field. He had to be some dark angel.

"Dammit," Georges cursed when he reached her side. "Is that the mercenary?" Joan asked. Georges shook his head, still staring at the figure.

"No, worse," he paused swallowing, "That's Prince Edward. The Prince of Wales."

A/N: Here it is my first fic on . Just so we are clear, many of the main characters are based on _real_ historical figures, but the basic depiction of them is based off of Koei's Bladestorm. I am rating this M for later just in case. I don't want to get in trouble on my first fic. Please Review. Encouragement always works!!

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	2. Part 2

Part 2

Her stomach dropped. Of course she heard of him, but never came to really observe him. What she saw was astounding and intimidating. Catching herself she observed, readying her men, waiting for the dark Prince's charge to come a little closer.

"CHARGE!" she yelled and with a roar, her men moved with her. The black armored gentleman lowered his dark lance as did the rest of his cavalry. Her cavalry drew their swords, but when the English go within two strides they took a sharp left turn towards a regiment of halberd warriors, taking all of them out in one charge.

Joan had no choice but to focus her attention on the advancing English regiments. Her horse, Lazarus, trampled over a few of the soldiers. She galloped through, regrouping with the rest of her cavalry before charging towards a regiment of foot soldiers. Joan ran through, galloping behind a defense regiment, waiting for her cavalry to regroup. Unfortunately, only a few made it through the confusion of the battle.

She looked around, worried that she could not find the Prince of England. Joan ordered her unit to push forward and to give aid to the soldiers slashing at the enemy. She came closer to the middle of the fighting. Halting abruptly, she glanced up finding the formidable young, dark Prince galloping towards them from across of the field. She decided to meet him halfway, kicking her heels against Lazarus' side, pushing forward.

Up on a hill, not far from the fighting, Branwyn of the Bow, a young, cheerful looking girl from Wales, observed the fighting below. Karen, a young woman with pink-red hair, came to her side, to get a strategic view.

"That girl, on the horse, is that…who is that?" Branwyn pointed to an armored French girl leading a group of cavalry knights.

Karen shrugged, "I never got the name of her. I was focused on the money, and now the English are giving me the money. You might want to keep an eye out for the horsemen." Karen sprang down the hill, hollering, "You'll watch my back, won't you?!"

Branwyn smiled watching the mercenary woman plunge her squad into battle.

Joan raised her sword, her unit charging at full speed towards the Prince. Branwyn, still on the hill, raised her bow, as did the other famous English longbowmen. "FIRE," she ordered and released the arrow. Down on the field, Joan slowed her horse as she realized arrows were knocking her unit off of their horses. She glanced back at the fallen knights but immediately an arrow landed right in front of Lazarus causing him to panic. He reared up with a whinny, throwing Joan off his back. She landed painfully on the damp ground. She tried to gather her senses but she feared that it would be too late. She turned her head and found her sword a few feet away. A dark figure walked through the clouded rain, hovering over her. With a growl, Prince Edward raised his lance over his head ready to finish her off. Joan helplessly reached for her sword before shutting her eyes, waiting for the dark Prince to end her.

But it never came.

She dared to open her eyes seeing the Prince over her, his lance still poised. The rain dripped down his lance and his thin, handsome face. His face didn't have the energized, angry look as he did a moment ago. His expression, rather, had softened into a look of shock and realization.

John stared up at him, worried and confused. She sat up on her elbows, about to say something, but an arrow whizzed by her and into the small gap in the armor in the Prince's shoulder. He let out a cry, but was cut off when another arrow hit his thigh and another shot into the underside of his arm. Joan looked back to find the mercenary brother, Georges and his small archer unit aiming their arrows at the vulnerable spots on Prince Edward.

"FIRE!" he ordered and the unit released their arrows only one hitting his side and another hitting the inside of his leg. Georges reloaded and got ready to fire again.

"STOP!" Joan scrambled to her feet facing Georges' archers, "Cease fire!"

Georges reluctantly lowered his bow and his archers, confused, followed suit. The Prince's lance dropped to the ground as he fell to his knees. He stared up at Joan, eyelids drooping, until he tipped over onto his side. Joan knelt down beside him, hesitantly touching the wound in his shoulder. She looked up at the sky, it was nearly nightfall and she spied a few English and French units retreating for the night.

"Retreat for the night!" she ordered a nearby regiment. "Georges, help me get him to Cherbourg."

Georges face went red, "Are you insane?! You're rescuing the enemy!"

"I know you hate authority but now I will not back down. Now help me," Joan said as calmly as she could. Georges' jaw clenched shouldering his bow. He bent down and turned him over, "God he is heavy," he grunted, "How much armor does he have?"

Joan turned and spotted two heavy-axmen, "Could you carry him?" The two men with heavy helmets strode over to them. One took hold of the Prince's shoulders and the other grabbed his feet. The sudden jostling caused the Prince to stir. He opened his eyes slightly, gazing at her soft face as she peered down at him. He gave in a sharp intake of breath before whispering, "A-angel."

No matter how hard she would try she could not deny the tug she felt in her heart at the Prince's breath, the way he said it sounded like a desperate man who found the light. He drifted out of consciousness and was carried away, leaving Joan staring after his limp body.

Branwyn sat with her unit at their campsite getting some rest before the next day. She was worried. Of all the commotion she wasn't able to spot the Prince and she didn't see him get out of the raucous and wondered if he made it out safely. As far as she knew, no one saw him and no one had any clue as to where he was. His horse, Albion, was found but he wasn't on it. If he was shot down, surly the soldiers would've found his body.

"Get out of the way!" she heard a smooth voice shout. Henry "Hotspur" Percy was pushing his way through the soldiers towards the Prince's bodyguard, Iamarl.

"Where is the Prince, assassin?" Percy spat. Iamarl was already upset and the last thing she needed was Henry Percy on her back.

"You are his body guard, are you not?" Iamarl didn't answer, but Henry Percy continued his interrogation, "Some bodyguard if you can't even keep track of him."

"Leave her alone!" Branwyn stood up glaring defiantly at Percy. "It's not her fault. The rain…it was hard to see anyone in the rain."

The young, impulsive commander went red, "Tell me, archer, do _you_ know where he is?" Branwyn shook her head. "How hard is it to lose someone with all that black armor?! It's not like he is hard to miss, especially when he is on that bloody monster!" Percy pointed to Albion as he yelled at all of the surrounding soldiers before stomping away.

A/N: Henry Percy needs to take a chill pill, dont ya think? So far, none of the characters are mine, (except for the horses) but I will have some OCs. I know this chapter is shorter than the first one. Again Please Review!!!


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: Most of the characters that appear in this story either are historical characters or characters created by Koei. I don't own any of them.

Part 3

Joan of Arc reached Cherbourg in a short trip. A good portion of the soldiers were killed. Joan's heart froze when she heard that the compassionate knight that had played with a little boy had been killed, trampled to death by a huge black horse. It was such a minor struggle and yet they had lost so many lives.

The soldiers found Lazarus and led him to his mistress. "There you are," she cooed stroking his muzzle. Lazarus snorted. The soldiers collapsed in their tents and rooms. Joan was tired as well, but her heart was still rapidly beating. Once she put Lazarus in the stable she spotted the two soldiers carrying the fallen Prince.

"Madame," one of them said, "Where do you want him?"

"Place him in my rooms," she answered, "And get 'ze maid to look after his wounds."

"Lady of Arc!" a sharp voice came from behind her. Georges made a beeline toward her looking frustrated. "What is the meaning of this? Do you understand the implications of your actions?"

"Yes I do, Georges."

"This is borderline treachery! He could very well kill us all. The whole fucking Kingdom of England would be storming everywhere for him!"

Joan flinched when he swore, clearly uncomfortable with such language. When she didn't respond, Georges shook his head. "And this is why I became a mercenary," he muttered before saying aloud, "I hope you know what you are doing." He stalked off.

Joan entered a room in the tavern where she stayed and changed into her simple gown. Next she entered her own bedroom finding the maid wringing out a wet, bloodied cloth. The maid turned and curtsied, showing gratitude towards the famed Maid of Orleans.

"How is he?" Joan asked flatly. The maid answered in a soft tone, "Madame, 'ze wound in his shoulder and one in his side are really deep, 'ze other ones are shallow enough, I think. I haven't removed his armor and I did 'ze best I could to clean 'ze blood off."

Joan nodded, "Thank you. I can manage from here."

The maid curtsied once again and backed out of the room, her head bowed. Joan approached her bed cautiously. Her eyes scanned the Prince's form finding the arrows were still in his body. Swallowing, Joan began to remove the black armor from Edward's body. It did take a while to unstrap the many plates of armor, but underneath revealed forest green clothing and black boots. The dark green was stained even darker where the wounds had bled. Exhaling, she gingerly touched the arrow poking out of his thigh. She took the wet cloth and wet the area around the arrow, slowly pulling the arrow out. The maid was right at least, the arrow wasn't very deep. With a gentle tug the head of the arrow cut out of his body. Fresh new blood began to pour out of the empty wound. She let it bleed a little, while working on the arrow on the inside of his thigh, near his groin. When she released the arrow, the Prince let out a faint, strangled moan. Joan stopped suddenly, hoping he wouldn't wake. Thankfully his eyes remained closed and didn't move; his breathing was as labored as before.

The French girl moved to his side, wrenching out a shallow arrow. She wet the cloth again and carefully soaked up the blood from the three wounds before preparing to take out the two deeper arrows. Joan damped the area around the arrow in his side, before tugging on the arrow. It wouldn't budge. Releasing it with a frustrated sigh, she knew she would have to cut the arrow out. In a hurry, Joan ran down stairs to talk to the bartender, asking if he had some knives she could use. The bartender gave her a curious look but placed some knives on the bar, giving her exclusive permission to use them.

Once back in her room, Joan washed the knives as thoroughly as she could. Once clean, she rested the pointed tip of the knife near the wound entrance. She swallowed and held her breath as she applied pressure though the cloth. She couldn't help but cringe when she felt the blade go through the skin. She tried hard to stop the sickness welling in her chest as she cut the skin around the arrow. She wiped the blood away from the flesh and inserted the knife through the gash hoping to wedge the arrow out. Joan twisted and pulled on the arrow while using the knife as a lever. Finally, after a short while, the arrowhead started to peek through and she pulled it out.

Exhaling, she threw the arrow off to the side, and scrambled to get a drink of fresh water from a pitcher. Never would Joan have thought herself as this squeamish before. She had cleaned wounds and aided physicians and nurses in minor healing, but she never had to perform any type of surgical procedure.

As she had done before, she cut a circle around another arrow and maneuvered it until she saw the head, then pulled it out of the flesh. Joan wrung out the wet rag and wiped the wounds clean. She would have to stitch up the wounds next, but that would have to wait. Instead she ran down to the bar of the inn and asked the keeper for some wine. The keeper graciously handed her a bottle of wine with a smile, "Anything for you, Maid of Orleans."

She returned a shy smile, "Thank You." Anytime she was called the 'Maid of Orleans', shivers ran down her spine. She returned to the room, finding the Prince just as he was before she left. She unstopped the bottle and poured a little in the gash in his shoulder. She heard the Prince inhale sharply as the alcohol entered his wound. She proceeded to do the same with the other injuries and the English Prince made no sound until she reached the wound near his groin. He gave a small whimper and his eyebrows drew together in pain. Joan quickly placed the wet cloth over the gash hoping to steady the pain until his breathing reached an even yet rapid pace. Joan did start to feel drowsy and she knew it wasn't safe to sleep in the same room as the enemy Prince, but someone had to remain vigil in case he awoke or something went wrong.

Her head perked up when she heard a light knock on the door. "Come in," she called softly. Georges entered looking uncharacteristically apologetic, "My Lady, I have come to…to apologize…" His eyes flicked over to Prince Edward. "Is that…is that him?"

Joan nodded, "I took care of his wounds, but I have yet to stitch them up."

Georges' gaze found the gash on the Prince's thigh near his groin and the mercenary raised an eyebrow. "Astounding. I don't think I've ever seen him without all zat armor," Georges moved closer, eyes traveling over the Englishman's form as if he were examining an unknown creature.

"Anyway," he stated, straightening up and looking back at her. "I apologize for my behavior earlier. I don't know what came over me. You see, Marc usually puts me in my place well enough. I guess I got excited."

Joan smiled, "I understand."

Georges turned to leave but Joan stopped him, "Wait!" Georges gave her a curious look as she retrieved a bundle of blood stained arrows from her nightstand, "You forgot these."

Georges smirked, "Well, if 'e ends up dying, these would be 'the famed arrows zat killed Prince Edward'." He gave a dry huff, "Well, at least I can flaunt zese to Marc as arrows stained by ze Prince's blood. I'd like to see him try to get ze Prince's blood on his spear."

As Georges left, Joan tried to ignore Georges' prospect of the Prince actually dying. She looked back at the black-haired young man. He did look slightly ill. Before, he had been severely ill and was rumored to have died. She herself had heard such rumors in passing, but never thought much about it. Those rumors raised morale in Il-de –France. Yet she had no time to consider the Prince as a leader or a person for that matter, but now as she gazed upon the young English heir's striking face and black hair, something settled in her. The Prince was only a boy, not much older than she. Joan would never have guessed that the crown Prince of England would be such a young, captivating man who instilled pride in his soldiers and brought nightmares to his enemies. Joan was now seeing an English soldier as a man, not a monster, although he was intimidating.

Joan extinguished the candles and stretched herself along the wool carpet next to the bed. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

A/N: Reviews always help. And trying to type a French accent is hard, but I'm doing my best.


	4. Part 4

Part 4

John Fastolf, a man with thin, arching blonde eyebrows and a wide-brimmed hat sat atop his horse watching over the enemy fortress from across the field. He heard a rustling behind him and thought it would be his heavily armored companion, John Talbot, but instead a tall man with long lank black hair and black hairs on his chin, approached him.

"Well, I don't think I've seen you here before," Fastolf said in his high airy aristocratic tone.

The man didn't respond. Fastolf smirked, "You must be Azrael. You're late."

Azrael rolled his eyes, "Are you so sure I wasn't in the battle to begin with?"

"If that were true, that would mean you didn't report to me or Talbot to begin with. Even mercenaries are expected to do as such," Fastolf criticized. "How did this day end, then?"

The shadowy mercenary gave a crooked smirk, "England gained the upper hand. The presiding commander, an attendant to Phillipe le Bon, and a mercenary contingent pulled their forces back as our English forces captured the surrounding bases off the shore."

"So you were here."

"How do you think the base commanders came out so easily? Surely you didn't think it was to enjoy this brilliant day," Azrael said sarcastically.

Fastolf chuckled, saying, "I see. I do have a question for you. I've heard you been called 'Black Scythe'. Why is that?"

The mercenary glanced up at Fastolf, "If I ever feel sympathetic to the French cause, you'll find out."

"Ahh, if I were anyone else I would almost take that as a threat," John Fastolf turned his horse around and headed back to base.

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Joan awoke the next morning finding Prince Edward still unconscious on the bed. She cautiously got up and took a look at his wounds. She sighed as she found that she had no choice but to stitch up the injuries. Joan summoned the maid to bring her sewing tools, and as she waited, she changed clothes and washed up. The maid returned with sewing tools and was politely dismissed. Joan wet the end of the thread and wove it through the needle. She poured some of the wine through the cuts, before preparing to remove some of the Black Prince's clothing in order to effectively close the wounds.

She dragged her fingers over the green cloth tracing the V collar that ended below the collarbone. Hesitantly, she pulled the collar apart, baring the flesh of his chest and shoulder. She swallowed. Edward's skin was pale, his chest and shoulder was defined and sinewy, showing tight strength. Joan wove the thread through the skin and she closed the wound. She finally removed his entire forest green tunic, in order to close the wounds on his side, finding a few ridges on his chest and abdomen where old scars were. Joan glanced at his side and found that the deep gash was right to between two ribs.

Joan proceeded to stitch up the gash making sure the stitches were tight and sturdy, before continuing on to the next cut. When it was time to stitch the wounds on his thigh and groin, her face became heated. She would have to remove his breeches. Blushing furiously she removed the Prince's boots and took the bed sheet and draped it over his lower abdomen and hips. She slid his breeches off, pulling the sheet over his groin, purposefully diverting her eyes as she did. Once his…maleness was covered Joan turned her attention to the wound near his groin. Joan placed a hand over the Prince's hand over his athletic leg and poked the needle through the skin, weaving the thread over the cut. She successfully stitched the gash, though her hand brushed over his groin a few times causing the heat to rise in her face and lower belly. Shaking away the feelings, Joan moved on to the final cut.

Joan leaned back with a sigh. She was done. The Black Prince's wounds were sealed and would heal over time.

A soldier knocked on the door, "My Lady, a scout has brought news from the other forces from the shore…"

"Alright," she called. "I'll be out in a moment."

"Yes, milady."

Joan turned back to the Prince and put his breeches back on, only removing the sheet when she was sure his breeches were covering his groin.

Joan appeared outside, meeting with the leaders of the units and the scout.

"Well, what is the news," a knight named Marcel asked, crossing his arms.

The scout, a small, meek boy answered, his voice shaking, "Commander Marie sent me to tell you that they need reinforcements, if you can spare any. Most of the bases there have been taken and they don't have the man power to defend against all of them. The English would surely take the remaining bases and force them to retreat."

Marcel glanced at Joan, "Can we spare any forces?"

"We can only send Monsieur Baudouin," Joan nodded to a tall, heavily armored French night a few paces away beside a tree.

"Will that be enough?"

"Any little bit would help," the scout assured eyes to the ground.

"Then I'll inform Baudouin," Marcel walked off.

"What happened over there?" Georges turned his attention to the nervous scout. The scout gave him a fleeting glance wringing his hands, "The English were able to capture the bases from the inside."

"Spies?"

The boy shook his head, "A mercenary they call 'Black Scythe'…"

"That's that mercenary I told you about," Georges said. "I would've thought he would be attacking Cherbourg though."

"You also thought the Prince of England was dead," came a retort from another mercenary.

Georges rolled his eyes, "Well, excuuuse me. I made a mistake. So what? But who is the commander of the English forces on the eastern shore?"

The scout looked puzzled, "What do you mean?"

"Black Scythe is clearly an able mercenary, but no one in their right mind would give a mercenary the soul command of the entire forces. That is why 'ze Maid and le Bon's assistant are saddled with us mercenaries. There has to be an English general at the reigns."

"But what about the English forces attacking Cherbourg?"

Georges shook his head, "So far, none of my scouts reported movement."

Joan frowned, "That's odd. I would think that they would attack to get Edward back."

"Maybe they don't realize that he has been captured. Zere was a lot of confusion."

Baudouin and Marcel returned to the circle. Baudouin had agreed to go with the scout to the eastern shore. The leaders dispersed and Joan made her way back to the tavern.

The tavern keeper greeted her and she smiled in response but no other words were exchanged. Joan quietly opened the door to her chambers and her stomach dropped. The bed was empty. She slowly crept forward to get a better look. The Prince's green tunic was still lying at the edge of the foot of the bed. Surely he wouldn't be running around half-dressed.

Joan suddenly felt strong hands grasp her neck from behind. She was then forced back against the wall by the doorway. She was now face-to-face with an angry and somewhat confused Prince.

"Where am I?! What am I doing here?!" he yelled, the vein in the middle of his forehead pulsing. Joan's hands grasped the wrists of her assailant and she tried to remain calm. "Y-you're in Cherbourg, you were wounded…"

"Wha…?" the Prince seemed disillusioned. "Oh…God…" weakness overcame him and he released Joan before collapsing on the floor.

---------------

Azrael walked through the castle of the English base. He knocked on the door to Fastolf's quarters, but there was no answer. He opened the door to find John Fastolf sitting fast asleep behind the desk, his head resting on the table. Black Scythe sighed and took a log from the cold fireplace. He waited a few moments before slamming it on the desk. He waited a few moments before slamming it on the desk. Fastolf awoke stunned and fell out of his chair. Azrael peered down at him from over the desk, "Got enough beauty sleep?"

"Bastard," Fastolf grumbled rubbing his head and putting his hat back on.

"What happened to you?"

Fastolf rubbed his eyes, "I may have had too much to drink last night."

Black Scythe raised an eyebrow, "I don't think I've ever seen you drunk." He paused, eyes narrowing, "I'll bet you're a bubbly drunk."

Fastolf glared at him. Black Scythe continued, "I think that may have been your codpiece the soldiers were playing with last night."

Subtly, Fastolf checked himself, giving a soft sight of relief when he found his codpiece was still in his breeches. "Why are you such and ass?" he groused. Azrael shrugged before handing him a note, "A scout gave this to me for you to read."

Fastolf snatched the note, giving Azrael a glare. Azrael grinned and sat down in a nearby chair leaning back. He watched Fastolf's eyes scan the note. Suddenly with a growl, Fastolf slammed the note on the desk.

"Something wrong?" Black Scythe asked of the commander's outburst.

"Prince Edward of Wales went missing after a skirmish with that damnable Witch of Orleans."

Black Scythe's eyebrows rose, "Missing? I didn't realize he was that easy to lose."

"That's what I thought," came Fastolf's panicked tone. "He's not hard to pinpoint in a line of dead soldiers."

"So you think he's dead?"

"The odds of finding him alive are slim in my opinion," Fastolf went silent and rose, his gaze meeting Azrael's.

Azrael smirked, "What do you want me to do?"

Fastolf's answer was stern and short, "Find the Prince."

A/N: Black Scythe is my character and you will find out why he is feared. Review! Review! Review! Please! So I know that you guys are reading my story.


	5. Part 5

_*_Dialogue in_ italics_ means flashback dialogue

Part 5

_Lady d'Arc,_

_Lord de Rais and Lord La Hire are on their way to assist your forces. My adjutant's forces have been pushed back and I am hoping that you would reinforce their forces until I arrive._

_Your brother-in-arms_

_Philippe le Bon; Duke of Burgundy, Count of Flanders_

Joan smiled as she read the news of the arrival of her two good friends. She also hoped that Adrien De La Hoya would arrive with them. The loud, sarcastic Italian mercenary always knew how to make her smile. His dry sense of humor was like a breath of fresh air to the gloom of war.

She folded the note and laid it on the nightstand. Her gaze fell on the Prince of England. It was obvious he was still weak, and aside from the initial shock of nearly being assaulted by him, she barely managed to get him back on the bed. What should she do with him? De Rais would certainly panic if he found Joan essentially rescuing the thorn in France's side.

Joan would have to make a deal. She would send the Prince to His Majesty to keep prisoner for a ransom. That was how these things worked, although she did not necessarily agree to it. As her eyes traced his form, she spotted something on his body that she hadn't realized was there before. It was a shiny silver pendant in the shape of a profiled lion's head with an arrow pointing downward underneath the head. A blood-red jewel sat in the center of the pendant. Joan touched the symbol with her fingertips feeling the Prince's chest rise and fall unevenly, sweat glistened on his body as his fever rose. Joan hastily dampened a cloth and placed it on his forehead. His brow was creased in discomfort but relaxed as the soothing cloth was laid over his brow.

For some reason, Joan felt she should weep. So long had she fought to end the suffering of the people, but she saw it on this young man up close. Suffering hadn't just affected the villagers but the soldiers as well. Adrien De La Hoya and another mercenary named Azrai helped her realize that the only way to save her people is to offer a helping hand. Funny should two laid-back mercenaries teach her such a lesson. She had tried to apply it but had not gotten the chance. Now this Prince was suffering from injuries and perhaps even more. Although he was the enemy, Joan could not deny his soul the help he needed.

Joan gently wiped the sweat away from his brow, and the Prince's eyes opened slightly before closing them again after he gave a hard swallow. Her heart stopped, afraid that he would awaken in a rage. To play it safe she asked the maid to watch over him while she prepared for the arrival of her comrades.

**

Henry Percy lay in his tent frustrated. Without the Prince, they could not do anything. The English troops awaited news from the King to determine if they would start the rescue mission, but none came. What was taking so long?

With a low sigh, he ducked out of his tent and walked through the hundreds of bored troops. Hotspur quietly wondered how His Highness could have been so careless during battle to be captured by the enemy. If he was captured. The Prince had been ill for a while and was slowly regaining strength, but something changed. Whatever had ailed him had clouded his mind, but still, now after he had recovered somewhat, his personality and mentality remained very uncharacteristic of him. Instead of the powerful young orator whose kind heart and intelligent strategies won many soldiers and commoners over, the Prince became morose and cold. He still sought to protect the common people, but his attitude was stoic and even dangerous. It could be that his brush with death several times had poisoned his outlook on life.

Either way, Henry Percy did not like it. Prince Edward may have been there in body, but the old Prince was long gone; no where to be seen.

Percy spotted Iamarl sitting next to a campfire…alone. He made his way towards the former assassin but did not speak to her.

"Once again, Henry Percy, I betrayed the Prince's trust in me," she spoke softly.

Percy rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Not this again? Why must you martyr yourself so?"

She glared at him, and he cleared his throat. "I guess I should apologize…"

"Wait, what? Henry Percy apologizing?" Iamarl gave him a shocked look.

"Please," Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, "it's hard enough for me as it is. I lost my temper—"

"Clearly," Iamarl muttered and received a glare.

"It was not your fault," Percy admitted. "Things just happen to turn for the worse."

Coming from the hot-tempered Henry Percy, the apology meant a lot to Iamarl and she gave his a slight smile.

"But I do have a few questions," Percy down next to her, "Have you noticed anything different about His Highness recently? As in his personality?"

"Yes," the former assassin answered resolutely, "He has not been himself lately. Not getting enough sleep for example and becoming colder by the day. Recently I witnessed him …venting."

"Venting?"

"Yes. Like he has some inner anger that needed to be let out. He was sitting in his tent reviewing the plans alone. I remember him holding a goblet of water. I'm not sure what happened, but he furiously smashed the goblet on the table."

"Really? You know, I don't think I've ever seen him angry."

Iamarl shuddered, "And it is not something you'd want to see."

**

Joan of Arc was at the entrance of Cherbourg ready to greet the lords La Hire and de Rais. He two comrades came to the entrance side-by-side, Gilles de Rais on his horse and La Hire strode next to him on foot. Behind them was Adrien De La Hoya, a handsome man with medium-length brown hair, the bangs tied in the back and the faint stubble of a goatee.

"Greetings to you fair maid," La Hire's booming voice resounded as walked towards her with outstretched arms.

"Excuse us for being late, the mercenary hindered our fluid passage," de Rais grumbled in his nasally tone.

"Well excuse me, but I had to carry your junk. I'm not your mule," De La Hoya bit back.

"Really? Then why did you eat that apple off my palm?"

Adrien bit his cheek shaking his head, "I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass." He then turned to smile at Joan, "Where's the love? I just walked for a day behind a horse."

Joan beamed and embraced him, he returned the friendly embrace. "Thank you for coming."

"Well it was either this or I work with that scholar woman. She appeals to me as much as haggis and Azrai offered to go with her. And offered is an understatement," he paused. "He more or less jumped on the opportunity…and on me."

"How long is your contract?" Joan asked.

"Six days until I need to renew."

Gilles de Rais hopped off his horse, "It seems you have held off the English long enough."

Joan went silent, but Adrien folded his arms, "Speaking of English, there was a rumor going around that Prince Edward went missing?"

"Missing?" La Hire asked, "I thought he was dead."

Adrien gave a hollow laugh, "Far from it when I last saw him."

'Word goes fast around here' Joan thought. Mercenaries and soldiers were rumor addicts. She worried that soon her friends would find out that she was holding the Prince and then, soon after, His Majesty would find out.

"How hard is it for a guy like that to go missing?" Adrien scratched his chin

De Rais followed Joan into Cherbourg flanked by the two bigger men. "You will not stay here long," de Rais informed her as they entered the inn where they would all be staying.

Joan froze, "What? I just received a letter…"

"Did you not hear?" La Hire stood forth, "Lord le Bon is taking control of these operations. His Majesty sent in a contingent to aid his arrival. After his forces are settled in Cherbourg, we are to escort you back to Ile-de-France."

"We will drag you if we have to," quipped Adrien.

'So all of this was for naught,' Joan thought. They did have the Prince in captivity. She debated on just letting him go. The English would no doubt ravage the countryside for their Prince.

While La Hire and de Rais meandered around Cherbourg, Joan and Adrien walked the streets side-by-side.

When Joan met Adrien De La Hoya and his friend Azrai, she was being mocked by other mercenaries. She remembered one of the mercenaries blocking her way, "_The very idea! Women should stay at home to do their needlework."_

"_I need not to be a man to desire to defend my village,"_ she had retorted. The mercenary looked furious, but before he could do anything, Adrien pushed him aside, "_Let her go, Richard. Yeesh! And you wonder why you aren't married with kids."_

The mercenary was clearly given a low blow but responded in a calm tone, "_Ouch. Right in the nuts…"_

Azrai walked next to Adrien. The Egyptian rubbed his nose before interjecting, "_Err, before you two lovebirds get into a fight, might I remind you that well…I don't know…THERE'S A BATTLE TO BE FOUGHT!"_

The mercenaries' heads jerked up and they muttered in realization before they stalked off to the battleground. As they filed out Azrai grasped Adrien's arms, "_What the hell happened?_"

_"The pigs wouldn't allow her to fight."_

Azrai gave Joan a sympathetic look, "_Well, we'll need all the help we can get."_

Joan smiled at the two mercenaries as she followed them to the battlefield.

Later when she became part of the forces a Toulouse she was sent to submit a request for an able mercenary contingent. She knew who to search for. Joan heard of a tavern in Normandy which mercenaries frequently attended. Joan did not know Adrien's name at the time, but the burly barkeep was very helpful when she tried to describe him.

_"Does he kind of have a wise-ass attitude?" _the barkeep asked after hearing Joan's description. Joan thought for a moment then nodded.

"_That would be Adrien De La Hoya,"_ he answered, "_His last contract was three days ago so he should be back here any moment, if you would like to wait."_ She nodded and sat at the bar table and the barkeep gave her some water. She delighted in hearing the rough conversations of the various mercenaries as they entered, no matter how coarse their language was. They all seemed to be a jovial bunch, taking joy in what they do. Joan kept to herself though. She still felt uncertain based on her previous encounter with mercenaries at Domremy.

After about a half-hour, Adrien's recognizable face appeared. He was taken aback when she approached him almost immediately as he entered. He probably didn't recognize her at first. She reminded him who she was and he smiled, "_Well now, you've changed a bit. What can I do you for?"_

De La Hoya was almost always there for her. He helped her in Orleans and rescued her from the prison cell in Rouen. Rumors were buzzing around that suggested that Adrien had fallen in love with her. How, she could not understand. They were two separate people. De La Hoya was loud, cheerful, and a prankster. Joan was serious but did not mind getting a laugh or two. It did seem that Adrien was most happy when Joan smiled, but in love?

Joan had never thought of loving another man, but if she would have to choose, she would most likely appreciate someone who was too serious than someone who was not serious enough.

"So," Adrien brought Joan back to the present. He was chewing a piece of bread. He tore the small loaf in half and offered the unchewed half to her. "Anything going on with the English? Because you look troubled."

"It is nothing," she accepted the proffered bread lightly.

Adrien was not convinced, "Uh-huh, and I'm actually the long lost heir to the Gonzaga family fortune. You are a terrible liar, little one."

One of the mercenaries from Adrien's squad approached looking nervous, "Adrien, we need to talk in private," he whispered.

"Sure," he answered hesitantly before turning to Joan, "Don't wait up. I've got to go."

A/N: The quotes about the mule I think I got from some show, I don't know, but I'm not sure if I completely came up with that on my own. I used many quotes from the game in this chapter that are easily recognizable for those who have played the game. Adrien and Azrai are mine. They are mostly to provide some comedy relief. Again, please Review. Thanks


	6. Part 6

Part 6

Joan sat by Lazarus in the stables watching him quietly munch on straw and stroking his side. She was thinking about so many things: the war, the Prince, and so on. She felt the stress upon and was thankful she had her friends to aid her. The struggle was determining the priorities. Joan knew that her main priority was to defend Cherbourg, but her heart said something different. She could not deny her concern for the Crown Prince of England. The moment he refrained from killing her; she saw something different in his eyes but still left the question: Why didn't her kill her when he had the chance? Her death would cause the French people to retaliate in rage but would also cause sloppiness strategically followed by plummeting morale. Absolute advantage would have been awarded to England.

Lazarus snorted, jerking Joan from her thoughts. "What am I to do?" she asked her steed as she patted his side.

Joan entered the tavern looking to turn in for the night but immediately noticed Adrien lounging nonchalantly facing her, but was giving her a calculating look.

"Well it looks like you've got a lot to talk about…" he said sternly.

"What?"

"Your spoil of war up there," Adrien pointed to the ceiling of the tavern floor.

Joan's stomach dropped and tried to avoid the converstation but Adrien followed her to her room.

"What are you thinking? Unless you holding him for a profitable ransom…"

She cut him off, "I don't know what I am going to do but I am not going to let him just die. Not like this…"

"How do you want him to die? A lance up the ass?"

Joan opened the door while Adrien continued to rant. She quietly dismissed the maid.

"I am not saying I don't like the guy…" Adrien continued, "He gave me my first job, and he's a genuinely nice guy. It's just…unorthodox."

Joan gave him a pointed look. A young girl commanding a French contingent of knights was just as rare. Adrien amended himself, "Point taken."

Adrien focused his sight on Edward, "What the hell happened to him anyway?"

Joan pointed to the arrow in his shoulder, "Arrows."

"Hmm…irony," Adrien blurted. He of course was referring to the fact that England specialized in archery and their Prince was captured by the use of bows."You know, this is the closest I've been to him without fighting the urge to rum away or soil myself."

Joan looked over noticing that the Prince's fever was rising again. Adrien seemed to notice too, "Do you have any idea what to do?"

Joan shook her head. She dried the perspiration from the Prince's body. Adrien examined Joan closely, watching her care for the Prince of Wales, mostly trying to gauge her emotion. Unsure, he turned to leave, adding, "It will only be a matter of time before your superiors will know about this."

Joan knew that Adrien was right. Eventually de Rais or La Hire or Lord le Bon will find him, and then all hell would break loose. Joan removed her armor and clothing, slightly embarrassed but she had no choice as the room next to hers was booked by either Adrien or another mercenary. Once she changed into her gown she sat next to the bed, cooling the Prince, well into the night, until eventually she fell asleep

**

Edward felt weak, too weak to stay awake for long. He felt like a squad of horsemen had just trampled over him. He opened his eyes seeing an unfamiliar moon-lit room. He tried to move but couldn't, so his half-awake eyes scanned the room. He tried to remember what happened. He couldn't remember anything beyond vague images of figures standing over him.

There was a slight stirring at the side of his bed. Edward looked over to find a young girl sitting at the side of his bed sleeping, her head resting by his hip. She looked familiar but couldn't place her face. She had such a pretty face in such a restful state, but what was she doing here? More importantly, what was he doing here? A sharp pain shot from his thigh, near his groin. He bit back a groan and waited until it subsided. The pain made his eyelids droop until he drifted out of consciousness.

**

Philippe le Bon trotted on his horse, leading the King's golden contingent to Cherbourg just as the sun rose. He was met at the entrance by the Maid of Orleans.

"You are up early fair Maid," le Bon said as he gave the reins of his horse to the stable boy.

"When you work in the country you have to awaken early," she said with a light giggle. Philippe le Bon smiled, "I see. Where are the Lords?"

"Probably still sleeping, my lord."

"Was there any trouble at all?" le Bon asked.

Joan answered bleakly, "There was a minor struggle, but we lost quite a few men…"

Le Bon stared at her wide-eyed, "And the English didn't finish their attack? Why?"

Joan avoided his gaze and her uneasiness didn't go unnoticed by the Duke of Burgundy. "You know why, don't you," he observed. Joan glanced up at him expecting his face to show signs of anger or frustration, instead though he sighed and walked away.

Philippe found Lord La Hire talking concernedly to Lord De Rais, "…She must have a reason. She would never do anything that would jeopardize France."

"Either way, we are lucky the Prince of England is confined from his wounds and secure in her possession," de Rais remarked coolly.

"The Prince?" le Bon interjected. Lord La Hire turned wide-eyed and le Bon made his own conclusion. "So ze Maid is harboring ze enemy Prince…" That would explain her strange behavior.

"Nonetheless, milord, I trust her judgment," La Hire said roughly.

"And I trust hers too," le Bon responded in his usual soft tone, "But ze King's contingent may feel otherwise and would want to use ze Prince for less than honorable motives."

La Hire looked hurt, "Are you saying that His Majesty the King would stoop so low as to permit such heinous acts?"

"He's saying that because it's true," de Rais said calmly, arms crossed. "Ze King would not risk an opportunity to get back at his rival, and one of ze ways is to humiliate something that ze English King holds dear. Ze most abhorrent kind of humiliation…"

"Ze Maid would never approve of such actions," the larger general said flatly.

"Whether she approves of zem or not, it is ze King's decision," the Duke of Burgundy looked back, observing Joan chatting with a familiar Italian mercenary. "It would be easier if we were more heartless."

Joan leaned back staring up at the leaves of the oak tree she sat under. Adrien sat down next to her with two pastries in his hands; he handed one two her as he sat down. "So you've found Philippe le Bon, the 'savior' of Flanders. He's a nice guy, but his assistant…" Adrien shivered, "She scares me." He was met with silence.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing…"

"Aww, come on,"Adrien put a comforting arm around Joan's shoulders. "Please tell me. You do trust me, don't you?"

"It's nothing I would want you to worry about…"

"Uh-huh. It's about the Prince, is it not? I'm not a complete dumbass," Adrien teased.

Before Joan could respond, Georges the mercenary approached Adrien, "Eh! You and I need to talk."

Adrien rolled his eyes and followed Georges.

Joan _was_ worried and it killed her not to tell Adrien. She felt horrible for not completely trusting Philippe le Bon. He was a kind man but too loyal, maybe. Or it could be the fact that he was leading a portion of the King's army that made her feel wary. Nevertheless, Joan found herself scrutinizing the Duke of Burgundy's every move.

As if now the Duke of Berry was rushing towards Philippe le Bon looking concerned. Le Bon turned to face him and the Duke whispered something into le Bon's ear. He gave the Duke of Berry a solemn look and shook his head. He said something and the Duke of Berry's face turned beat-red with frustration, as Lord le Bon turned away. Joan didn't like the situation. Something was amiss. Berry glared at the back of le Bon. Just then Adrien returned and sat back down, "Glad that's over. Do you know when you will be leaving?"

Joan tore her attention away from the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy and answered, "Tomorrow morning I believe. I have to take some of the contingent back to Ile-de-France. Are you staying?"

Adrien nodded, "Until my contract expires. I was hired under those two goons." He pointed to Lord de Rais and Lord La Hire who were talking to another knight. "And Georges and Marc, those mercenary brothers, their contract expires as well. Georges just came to banter about me interfering with his marksmanship in the last battle we were both in. If he wanted to get mauled by a bunch of knife wielders then he should have said so."

Joan's brow creased in concentration. "Do you hear that?" she asked staring at the large hill in the distance. A moment later the visage of a group of soldiers came up from the hill. Adrien squinted, "Is that…?"

Joan stood up to get a better look. A scout came running down yelling to the nearest soldiers, "We were forced to retreat! Ze English forces proved too great. Casualties are astounding." He sprinted off and Joan spotted Philippe le Bon staring at the small mass of troops with a look of confusion and concern, his eyes searching among the faces.

The troops dragged themselves towards the gate of Cherbourg, many limping and carrying other injured soldiers along. Through the crowd of defeated soldiers, the elder mercenary brother was spotted carrying a limp female body.

"Oh no…," Adrien groaned as recognized the body. Philippe pushed through the soldiers to see Marie's state. She looked lifeless and small in Marc's arms.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Marc said sadly. Philippe wasn't paying attention; his eyes were on his assistant. He gently brushed a hand across her cheek, "Marie?" Surprisingly, tears were beginning to well in his eyes.

"She's barely alive, sir," Marc reported, "She stood her ground as long as she could."

"Why didn't you retreat when you had the chance?" Philippe whispered to Marie's unconscious body. He jerked his focus to the mercenary, "Please give her medical attention immediately."

Marc nodded and carried her through the gates. Philippe's gaze followed him, staring at his wounded assistant for quite sometime. Adrien approached the distraught Duke, "Just remember, the English are experiencing similar feelings."

Le Bon visibly snapped out of his thoughts and nodded, "Why is it that war brings out the worst in all of us?" He stalked through the gates of Cherbourg.

Adrien stared after him scratching his eyebrow with his thumbnail, sighing, "Sometimes, I worry about that guy." He turned back to face Joan who still sat against the tree, wiping tears from her eyes.

Joan felt someone gently pick her up by the elbow, finding herself staring into the sea-green eyes of Adrien. "Come on, you need to get away for a while," he sounded serious as he led her to the stables and helping her on a horse before climbing on behind her.

Together they rode to the top of the hill overlooking Cherbourg. It seemed so peaceful, the grass rolling down the plain. Adrien plopped down on the grass, laying back and staring at the clouds floating across the vibrant sky. "Come on," he rubbed the patch of grass next to him inviting Joan to do the same. "You just need to get away."

Joan gave in and lay beside her friend, envying him for his carefree nature. Adrien spoke softly, "This always worked for me. Try not to think. Just watch the clouds." He folded his arms behind his head, resting his head back, and his gaze to the open sky. Joan turned to the sky, trying to clear her mind while being lulled by the hypnotic path of the clouds. She felt Adrien's arm wrap around her shoulders comforting her, helping her relax. She lay still letting her mind drift so all she was feeling was Adrien's warm arm and hearing the sound of grass waving in the light wind. Watching her clouds, she let her eyes droop.

Adrien looked over finding that Joan had drifted asleep, her face soft and peaceful. He had hoped this method would work; anything to calm her nerves. He himself resumed his sky-gazing and allowed her to rest.

Joan awoke to a dark starry sky; she glanced over seeing Adrien lying on his side, his hand on her shoulder, "We should head back." She did not answer but sat up staring at the stars. Adrien helped her up and as they rode back to Cherbourg, Joan didn't tear her eyes away from the beautiful night sky.

Adrien pulled to a halt next to the stables and dismounted the horse. Joan took his proffered hand and allowed him to help her off. "Thank you," she said vaguely before walking off to where she was staying the night. Now that her mind had been cleared she didn't really feel like saying much and she knew that she came off rude. Yet she figured that Adrien wouldn't find forced dull conversation worth having. Joan wasn't ungrateful and Adrien knew that.

The mercenary watched her walk away and let out a sigh. As he turned he let out a yell of surprise. Gilles de Rais was casually leaning against a post of one of the stalls. Adrien clutched at his chest. "Don't do that!"

"Why do you try so hard," de Rais asked in his usual nasally tone.

"What do you mean?" De La Hoya breathed still a little shocked.

"Why do you try so hard to gain the Maid's affection?"

Adrien rolled his eyes clearly annoyed with his questions, "_Why_ do you care?"

"Call it curiosity."

Adrien scoffed and waved his away, "Go make muskrat love with your guy friend…"

De Rais snorted in disapproval, "Why do I even bother?"

"Why do you even care, de Rais, you hate my guts," Adrien snapped as he pushed past him.

"Because I worry about ze Maid…"

Adrien stopped in his tracks, he turned back on his heel facing the thin man, his jaw set in a mildly childish manner. "The Maid? The Maid?" Do you even know her name?"

De Rais already small eyes narrowed, "Of course I do. It's Joan-"

"Then call her that! She's not just the King's pawn."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," De La Hoya muttered and stomped off.

A/N: Not much to say about this one. Only I feel bad for Philippe le Bon. Again, De La Hoya is my character the others belong to either history or Koei. Special thanks to Cybaster and shadowcat 971 for their support. Again Please Review.


	7. Part 7

Part 7

Joan reached the tavern where she was staying. It was empty and the barkeep looked shaken. This didn't look good. She sprinted to her room and flung the door open. The Prince was missing. She searched the room in case he was hiding, but he was no where, even his forest green tunic was gone. Joan scrambled downstairs and questioned the bartender. "Golden knights came in here searching for someone. When they left they were dragging an injured young man with them. I didn't ask questions," he answered.

In the back of her mind she knew that this would happen. Golden knights were part of the King's special forces. Word must've gotten to them and the Prince was probably being sent as a prisoner to the King. Joan thanked the barkeep for the information and raced to the one man she knew would be behind this.

**

Philippe le Bon sat next to the bed where Marie was laying, his head buried in his hands. Marie's injuries were due to a swordsman who slashed across her abdomen. The maids and nurses did their best but now they could only wait. He choked back tears. His underestimation of the English put her in danger and now he really felt like leaving the French army. Let the English have Aquitaine and Flanders; they thrived under their rule, yet he knew that turning back was not an option. The two countries would kill each other before peace would reside within France. If only a union between the two countries were to happen; a count of France and a duchess of England or an icon of England and an icon of France…

He had the strong sense that someone was behind him. He turned trying to hide his tears, finding Joan of Arc standing there in a very defensive position. She glared accusatory at him. He stood to face her squarely, she was upset about something.

"Why did you take him?" Joan asked coldly.

"Excuse me?"

"The Prince of England is my responsibility and you know it. And yet you haul him off without my knowing. Forgive me, sir, but how dare you?!"

"My lady," he pulled his hands back defensively, "Calm down. I gave no such orders."

Her brow furrowed in concern, "The bartender said that gold-armored soldiers dragged him off…"

"But I did not order anyone to seize the Prince."

"Who did then?"

"My guess is that the Duke of Berry took ze liberty of relieving you from the prisoner's post."

Joan let out a frustrated breath, "He's not well enough to be carried off like that."

He regarded her with kind eyes, placing his hands on her shoulders to get her to look at him, "Then follow the Duke of Berry. He will no doubt present Edward to ze King. Ze Duke acted of his own accord without the consent of either me or you. It seems zat ze Prince's fate is not his to decide. It's yours."

Joan stared into his kind blue eyes swallowing. She silently back away and left.

Joan called the stable boy to bring out Lazarus. She had her things set to go, her army ready to go now all she needed was her trusty steed. She hopped on and rode out to lead her squad to make a speedy way towards Ile-de France.

**

John Talbot, a thick, heavy-armored man with a spear burst into the chambers of John Fastolf. Fastolf stood in greeting, "My friend."

"Not now, we have a much larger problem…"

"Prince Edward is missing. I know."

Talbot's eyes narrowed. "Why is it that you don't seem so concerned?" He paused, "You already sent someone in search of him, didn't you."

"Maybe…"

"Even if you did, Fastolf, we must send a search-and-rescue immediately," Talbot said characteristically straight forward.

"As much as I would love to, my orders are to remain here. For someone who loves to follow orders I'd think you'd be all over this."

"Our Prince is in danger!" Talbot stomped his foot on the floor. Fastolf raised an eyebrow.

"You worry too much, Lord Talbot. You know as well as I do that the Prince can take care of himself."

Fastolf strode past him but Talbot stopped him, "Why hasn't the King called to action anything to aid his own son?"

For once, Fastolf couldn't answer, simply because he himself pondered that question frequently.

**

It was a few days since she left Cherbourg and Joan was now near Paris in Ile-de-France. During the whole trip, she kept on thinking about what Philippe le Bon had said before she left. What did he mean exactly when he said the Prince of England's fate in her hands? Was the Prince's likely hood of living that small? She was resolved after some soul-searching and clearing her mind that Prince Edward would not perish at the hands of the King.

A foot soldier raced up in front of her, "It's Lords La Hire and de Rais!" He pointed back behind her. She turned as did her forces. Gilles de Rais was striding down the road with La Hire on foot. Joan's heart sank but pressed onward attempting to avoid them.

Noticing that Joan made no attempt to approach them, de Rais raced his horse forward leaving a confused La Hire behind. He reared back once he got to Joan's side. "Why are you doing this? This is not like you."

"What do you mean?" she seemed hurt.

"Well, you do what's best for the French kingdom. Why stop now?"

"I seek what is best for the French people, not for the king. Destroying the English Prince, I realize, would only cause more bloodshed."

De Rais growled in frustration, "Whether he lives or dies, it doesn't matter. This war will go on until every last Englishman is destroyed."

"You sound like the King--."

"I sound like a realist!" de Rais cut her off. "You know that defying the King would just mean your end. I am trying to protect you from fighting two kingdoms on you own."

"If you feel I shouldn't do this alone, then help and trust my judgement."

De Rais sighed, covering his face with his hand. "My God, you are stubborn. Fine, I will try."

A moment later, huffing, La Hire came up to the front. "No fair! You have horses."

De Rais looked down at him, "Did you have our forces pull up?"

La Hire's eyes grew wide, "What?! Oh no you don't. _You_ go back up there and tell them."

The grandeur of Paris was well known. From its endless festivals to its intricate wealth, it was the favorite of everyone who entered. Paris was large because visitors who entered would sometimes never leave. Joan however found the city a little superfluous. When Joan entered with her comrades, the people were surprised but were already celebrating.

"The King of France has liberated Toulouse once again and is here now," a soldier informed. Somehow Joan had a sickening feeling that it wasn't the only reason why they were celebrating.

"My lord! Dear Maid?," the Count of Foix approached perplexed at seeing Joan of Arc. "Well! The King will would sure be surprised to see you. You arrived earlier than expected."

Joan, Gilles de Rais, and La Hire were escorted to the palace at Paris, not far from Notre Dame Cathedral.

"You Majesty!" cried the guard, "Ze Maid of Orleans has just arrived."

The King gave the guard a surprised look, "Zis is unexpected. Let her in."

The guard went back, "Maid, you will be received." Joan nodded and approached the King who was sitting on his throne, surrounded by noblemen and noble ladies. Joan hesitated but got down on her knees.

"Dear Maid, I am quite surprised zat you got 'ere so soon."

"Your Majesty, I had received orders to return here once Lord le Bon had entered Cherbourg."

A noble leaned over and whispered something in the King's ear. The King nodded, "Of course, forgive me." He stared down at her with pale blue eyes, stroking his white-goateed chin in thought, "I was thinking if would join us for dinner later. You all are most welcome."

Joan glanced at de Rais who gave her a sharp nod, "It would be my honor. But I have a pressing matter to discuss…"

"I am in a good mood, could you wait until the festivities to tell me."

Joan knew better than to rebuke. The King blinked, "Please stand. And, you zere." The King pointed to a well-dressed maid servant, "Lead ze Maid of Orleans and the lords to their rooms to rest and get dressed." The maid curtsied.

Hours later, dinner was called and Joan sat next to La Hire and another noble. The Duke of Berry was sitting next to the King chatting with him. La Hire leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I have a bad feeling about tonight's entertainment." Joan swallowed. She took a small drink to help her nerves. She could do little now, and the chances of rescuing the Welsh Prince from whatever chains he was held in were slim. Joan had no choice but to approach the King now.

She slid out of her chair and approached the King's side. She did not want to interrupt him but his conversation seemed endless. The King noticed her standing by his side and turned his head to face her.

"Your Majesty," she gripped her hands. "I need to discuss something with you-."

The Duke of Berry interrupted, "Your Majesty. I hope you don't mind, but I have arranged the entertainment for tonight."

The King tore his focus away from Joan, "I am sorry Joan, but we must talk later."

Joan, nervous and disappointed, sat back down next to La Hire. He gave her a sympathetic look. The Duke of Berry stood and clapped his hands, and as he did two guards left the dining hall, "Everyone, you are all guaranteed to enjoy tonight's fun. I was fortunate enough to capture this from Cherbourg. Guards! Bring out the prisoner!"

The same two guards entered, dragging a familiar young man to the front. He wore the same green tunic as when Joan first found him, but his eyes were sunken and complexion was pale, as if he hadn't eaten in several days. The Duke of Berry strode towards Prince Edward and gripped the Prince's jaw, "I hope it is to your liking, Your Majesty."

The King couldn't help but grin, "Most excellent, Berry. You did well."

"I thank you, milord," the Duke of Berry drew back his hand and struck the Prince with the back of his hand, across the face. The ring on Berry's hand cut the corner of the Prince's mouth. "But why have a prisoner when you can't have fun with them." Joan cringed. The Duke of Berry snapped his fingers and a large burly man with a beard stood up obediently and went to Berry's side, "Your Majesty, this is my most loyal knight, Ricardo de Rousseau. If you would permit me to continue…"

The King nodded, "Of course."

Berry leaned over and whispered something in Ricardo's ear, "Have fun…" Ricardo nodded and the Duke resumed his seat. The burly man gripped Edward by the hair and thrust his knee into Edward's stomach. The guards released the Prince as he doubled over, leaving him at the mercy of Ricardo. Ricardo gripped him by the neck, tracing the silver pendant. He ripped the jewelry off and threw it to the side. He kicked him on the side and punched him across the face. The Prince laid sprawled face-down and Ricardo stomped on his back causing the Prince to roll over. He tried to push himself up but the French knight kicked him across the face. The beatings went on with the crowd rooting and cheering.

La Hire looked over at her, but Joan couldn't bring herself to take a stand. She felt horrible, as she couldn't muster the courage to speak her mind about such barbaric acts. The laughing of the nobles and the choked-off grunts form Edward as he was being beaten filled her ears.

Ricardo shoved the Prince into the dining table, before pulling him back out, punching his already broken ribs. Blood was spewing from Edward's mouth as he was brought to the floor. Ricardo turned to look at the Duke, who gave a nod of approval. Ricardo pulled his leg back to kick Edward in the chin but stopped when Edward caught his leg with the full impact of his body. The Prince suddenly plunged a fork he had nabbed form the dining table into the meaty part of Ricardo's thigh. As Ricardo yelled in pain, the cheering stopped. Edward wearily scooted back against the wall, before passing out.

"Bastard!" Ricardo yelled as he yanked the fork from his thigh. Brandishing the bloodied fork, Ricardo strode towards Prince Edward's vulnerable body.

"Don't kill him yet," the King said calmly, "He is incapacitated, don't waste your energy."

Ricardo's hand fell to his side and bowed, "As you wish, Your Majesty."

"Take the prisoner back to the tower," the King said coolly. "I think it is time to retire to our beds, clear our thoughts. Thank you all for coming."

The guests, confused, curtsied and bowed, some leaving the hall to other parts of the castle, others leaving the castle all together. Joan bent down to pick up the discarded pendant. De Rais appeared at her side, "It is hard to say whether the knight would have killed him. It is hard to believe that the Prince was able to endure such abuse without passing out. At least until the end…"

Joan looked up, "I should've stepped in. But I couldn't…"

Gilles de Rais sighed, "Luckily for you, he is still alive."

"For now."

A/N: Cheesy I know. But I'm working my butt off. I have been putting in some research into this, but not too much to diverge from the actual story. Again, as always please REVIEW.


	8. Part 8

Part 8

The next morning was dull and cloudy, the air heavy. The first thing Joan noticed as she exited the castle was the absence of people in the streets. Her worries were answered when she found a large group of people huddled in the city square. La Hire came up behind her, "You might want to see this."

La Hire grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the edge of the crowd. A wooden stage was set and the Duke of Berry stood on top along with some soldiers, overlooking the crowd. The King and a few other nobles were a few meters away, underneath a canopy. The Duke was preaching to the crowd in a surprisingly loud voice.

"Citizens of Paris! Behold your nightmare who had been cut by the might of France!"

Many of the citizens looked perplexed, searching the stage. Prince Edward stood chained and roped to the stage, flanked by two guards.

"In France's endeavor against ze English, the Lord shined upon us and we have received this prize as a symbol of our superiority. This is the Crown Prince of England, the so-called mighty Edward of Wales!"

Murmurs rushed through the crowd with whispers like: "That boy? A Prince?" "Hard to believe someone so young could be that infamous Prince." "Mother? Is that blood on his clothes?"

The Duke continued, "I know it is hard to believe that this is our enemy. But ze gracious King sought to bring the very being who ravaged our countryside to justice. This _Prince_, is known to wear ze black armor of the devil, and has destroyed our soldiers, out protectors. We brought him here, so the very people he wronged would put him to justice. I entreat you, citizens of Paris…" the Duke picked up a pale stone, "Give him the justice he deserves!"

The Duke chucked the stone at the Prince, hitting him on the side of the head. All hell broke loose. That very act triggered the mob to find stones and mud to throw at Edward. Edward stood and endured the onslaught, yet he could barely remain on his feet. After one particularly large stone sliced across the side of his face, he was flung to the floor of the stage. Some citizens and guards grabbed the chains and ropes and pulled, tightening him onto the floor and the citizens continued to exhibit deathly violence.

"They'll stone him to death," La Hire whispered to Joan, but when he looked over, she wasn't there. A moment later the yells and jeers stopped. A young girl was standing on the edge of the stage, quiet. The Parisian mob immediately stopped to gaze at the recognizable girl. She slowly moved towards the fallen Prince.

"It's ze Maid of Orleans," a few people whispered.

Joan stared down at the quivering and beaten young man. His eyes shifted to stare at her, before closing, waiting for her to strike him. There was a large gash dangerously close to his temple near the side of his eye, and bruises on his cheekbones. Mud and dirt were strewn all over his face and clothes. She knelt down next to him, bringing the hem of her dress up and tearing a piece of cloth. Joan rested an arm over the Prince's shoulders. His eyes opened in shock when she touched his cheek with the cloth to wipe away the mud and blood.

Fuming, the Duke of Berry shouted, "Maid of Orleans! What do you think you are doing?"

"I am just helping this boy…"

"He is a prisoner, Joan!" Berry shouted. "Let him get his justice."

"Justice!?" Joan yelled back in shocked tone. "This isn't justice. This is torture! What you are doing is wrong and you know it!"

She tried to release the ropes from Edward's body to let him up.

"Girl! Get away from him!" cried the Duke of Berry.

La Hire appeared on the stage, his halberd over his head. He brought the weapon down, cutting the ropes holding the Prince down. Joan regarded the Herculean man with a wry smile.

The Duke of Berry stepped back, "Your Highness, should I suppress them?"

The French King didn't answer but stood. "Joan! Explain yourself," he demanded coolly.

"Your Majesty, by subjecting this poor boy to such abuse, you are lowering yourself to the acts of barbarians. Even more so, this prisoner was under my jurisdiction in Cherbourg."

The King stroked his chin, staring at the young lady. Joan never defied noble authority before. He smirked, "Fine. Ze prisoner will remain yours, but as a _prisoner_. You are to do with him as you like, but you are to treat him like a prisoner for your own _use_." Joan cringed at his unspoken implications.

"But, Your Majesty--," the Duke of Berry objected.

"Enough, my friend, I know you didn't capture the Prince and as a reward I give ze prisoner to the one who captured him, though you did provide good enough entertainment," the King motioned to the guards, "Take the prisoner away."

The guards loosened the rest of the ropes and chains but held to the Prince tightly and dragged him away. La Hire pulled Joan off the stage. The crowd dispersed and their murmurs were drowned by rolling thunder and rain started to pour. De Rais ran up to them, "Let's get inside."

That evening, after being consoled by La Hire and Gilles de Rais, Joan returned to the castle to retire. She had wondered what the guards did to the Prince, but much to her surprise he wasn't far. As she opened the door, she found Edward huddled in the dark corner, opposite her bed. He was in a poor state. His clothing was removed except for his tattered pants. A thick metal collar around his neck and shackles clamped around his wrists and connected to the wall with long chains.

She sat, stunned, at the edge of the bed facing him. Looking over, she found a small note on her pillow. She unfolded the finding that it was signed by the King:

_Congratulations on your prize. It is a reward for a job well done. We took the liberty to chain him up for you. As I had said before, do what you will with him, but I do expect you to exhibit some harshness towards this enemy. I forbid you to release him from his chains without permission from your superiors._

_-The Sovereignty of France_

Joan crumpled the paper and threw it to the side in disgust. The Prince was probably starving and cold. She took the quilt that was folded at the end of the bed, and Edward gave a start when Joan knelt down beside him. She gently laid the quilt over his shoulders saying softly, "I'll go get you something to eat."

He eyed her, giving her a calculating look, obviously he was not used to such tenderness from the French. Joan grew concerned, finding that several of his stitches were split open.

The kitchens were busy fixing supper for the nobles that night, but some of the cooks gave her fresh bread, fruit and water. She also retrieved a basin full of water from some servants. She returned to her room, balancing the basin on her head while carrying a basket of bread, fruit, and a jug of water. Joan found the Prince just as he was when she left, sullen and broken, fighting to stay conscious. He clutched at the blanket either for warmth or for measly protection. Joan set the basin down carefully. She pulled the blanket off to gauge his sickly form. Bruising around the sides showed that a few ribs were broken, but not so much as to restrict his breathing severely. The reopened cuts were what bothered her. She dipped a cloth in the water, and first tried to clean the rest of the dirt and blood from his body. He shivered from what she assumed was the coldness on his bare skin.

Joan washed as much as she could on his torso, but mostly concentrated on the dirt on his face. He was already humiliated enough, and although Joan tried to help him regain some dignity back, by the way he looked it would take a long time. She could still sense his hesitance and fear. "I'm just going to clean you up. Try to relax," she said softly as she began scrubbing his back gently because of his broken ribs. "There."

The Prince tilted his head downward, weakly covering his eyes with his hand. Joan wrung out the water from the cloth, before dipping it back in. "I'm going the clean those cuts. It may hurt."

Edward went rigid but didn't move when she paced the cloth on a long abrasion, "Sorry, it will only hurt for a second." Joan got to his face, lifting his head by his scruffy jaw. He still avoided eye contact, his sunken eyes directed at the ceiling, but his nervousness was evident as the muscles in his jaw quivered. Joan washed the gash near his temple. He flinched in pain and she cooed reassurances that made him feel like a sick puppy, "Shh, just a little bit…"

When she finished, Joan realized that her hand remained on his jaw slightly longer than needed. She had a feeling that the Prince neither noticed nor cared, since he was in such an unfavorable position. Joan placed the blanket back over his shoulders and went for the basket. She took out took the pitcher of water and filled a cup for him, and placed the food in front of him. She brought the cup to his lips. "Drink," she said while supporting his back. The Prince took the cup with shaking hands and downed the water. "There's some food for you," she pointed to the basket, but the Prince did not respond.

Later, Joan brought some bandages and bandaged his ribs, and still Edward did not move. His slight trembling whenever she touched his skin was the only thing that indicated that he was living and not a statue. Still Joan did her best to dress his wounds and provide him food, but that was all she could do for the moment, so she left the Prince of England in peace (relatively speaking).

Around Paris, she sought out the Lords La Hire and de Rais but they were no where to be found and after a brief supper with some lower nobles (their stares made her nervous), she decided to retire to her bed for the night. Feeling self-conscious enough already, she refrained from changing into her bedclothes and went to bed in her gown.

The Prince sat leaning against the wall, his food untouched. Although his face was hidden from her view, she believed that he was still awake. Sleeping that night would be rough for her, it is hard to sleep when there is a potentially dangerous man in the room. In spite of all of that, Joan still managed to rest her eyes.


	9. Part 9

*Dialogue in _italics_ represents flashback dialogue

Part 9

The next few days went off without a hitch. No news came from Lord le Bon and Joan was not given any orders; nevertheless she resumed her duties to her troops. The troops mostly spent their time relaxing in the city, using their time to spend in festival activities. The Duke of Berry was sulking according to Gilles de Rais. Joan ran into the Duke of Berry one day and she gave a bow of moderate respect. The Duke, however, was not pleased, "I warn you girl. I do not know why you want that dog alive, but I can guarantee that I will work to dispose of him myself."

She knew not to respond and she merely gave a respectful nod as he brushed by her. It was disconcerting to say the least and the warning worried her as she made her way back to her room. Joan collapsed on the bed, paying no attention to Edward. She gave an exasperated sigh and closed her eyes, about to fall asleep until the door burst open. Adrien charged in and she bolted straight up, surprised. Adrien gave her a curious look, "Joan, I heard about what happened and I…" He did a double take upon seeing Prince Edward chained, "W-Why is Prince Edward chained to your wall?" He looked around, "What the hell kind of place is this?" His gaze traveled back to Joan, "And why don't I come here often? I never thought_ you_ would be into the bondage scene…"

He laughed as he dodged a pillow thrown at him. Joan explained calmly, "You know that this is not what it looks like."

"I don't know. When he's half-naked, looking exhausted and chained to the wall…" he trailed in a wary tone. At Joan's glare, Adrien grew serious, "I wanted to see if you're okay, and also to ask if you have seen Azrai around. He was supposed to be here."

"I haven't seen him."

"Le Bon wants to strengthen the defensive lines and is searching for recruits," Adrien explained.

"Does he feel the English are going to attack?" Joan asked.

Adrian shrugged, "It seems so."

"Doesn't he need help?"

Adrien threw up his hands, "Hold on. You are to stay here. Just be patient. The King of France will give you something to do sooner or later."

Joan nodded and sat back on her bed. Adrien smiled, "He can't keep you here forever." He leaned over and placed his hands on her shoulders, "Okay?" Joan nodded again.

"Alright, I'm off to find Azrai. Just use this time to relax. You don't want to push the King's buttons through more insubordination," Adrien turned on his heel and gave one last nervous glance at the Prince before leaving.

After the Italian left, Joan glanced over at Edward finding his head slightly raised, curious about the previous conversation. Their eyes locked but only briefly. Joan did not know how to respond, so she did the first thing that came to her mind. She gave him a soft smile.

His expression softened and his muscled relaxed slightly causing her heart to swell. It gave her some comfort to know that she brought calm to her supposed enemy. Joan turned, stretched and exhaled, unaware of the Prince's curious gaze.

Joan turned to find the Prince picking up the stale piece of bread she had tried to feed to him earlier. He took a bite. This was the first time she had seen him eat, although the bread was stale and old he showed no signs of disgust or complaint.

Joan bent over to pick up the pillow she had thrown and placed it on the bed. She paused when she heard a throaty fluid voice, "You are that valuable to them?"

Joan spun around. Edward stared at her, his emotion was unreadable. _Did he just speak?_ Joan blinked, "Some seem to think so." The Prince's gaze returned to the floor, indicating that he most likely was not going to speak again. She felt a pang of disappointment. Despite its dryness, the Prince's voice was powerful, falling over her body, empowering her. No wonder he stirred the hearts of Englishmen.

**

Adrien slammed the mug down on the table. He sat across a tanned man with long dark hair, wearing a red and white burnoose.

"If you're not careful, Adrien, you'll end up like your father," the man muttered, buttering a loaf of bread.

"Oh no, I'm no where close to that man. If you met him you'd know why," De La Hoya leaned foreword. The Egyptian man across from him gave a patronizing nod, "Whatever."

"So here's the question," Adrien swallowed his last drop of ale, "Who is this Black Scythe?"

"Black Scythe? Why do you want to know about him?"

"C'mon Azrai, I thought I talked about this with you," De La Hoya snapped his fingers, "Barkeep! Another one for me please."

"No you didn't," Azrai shook his head, "You were rambling incoherently about something about Joan of Orleans and Prince Edward."

"Oh yeah, her lovaaa…" Adrien slurred, trailing off.

"Lover?" Azrai was taken aback. Well, it would explain why Adrien was drinking.

"I'm joking, no?" Adrien said vaguely. Azrai stroked his chin, "I wonder if you are."

**

It had been a few days since the Duke of Berry's threat and Joan spent most of her time speaking to the citizens of Paris. Of course, they all showed love and immense gratitude towards her and she became the French celebrity, just as everyone expected. Nevertheless, she grew concerned that some of the citizens fell to their knees bowing to her. Joan quietly reminded them that she was not royalty and deserved no such gratitude.

She entered her room for the night taking a quick glance at the Prince. Her eyebrows drew together when she noticed that the light scruff that had grown on his face was now thicker and coarser than before. In her mind, she knew that he needed a shave to prevent pests from hiding on his person.

"I think you need to be cleaned up," she said almost in a whisper. He gave no visible response. Joan thought to ask wither Adrien, La Hire, or De Rais for a razor and proceeded to set out to find either one of them. She figured Adrien at least would be at the bar near the city square, so she took the familiar road towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame. As she passed the gothic cathedral, she spotted someone else she recognized.

He was not hard to spot. His Arabic garb caused him to stick out like a sore thumb. "Azrai?"

He didn't turn, so Joan raised her voice and waved her arm, "Azrai!" He perked up and stopped. He turned with a curious look on his face. Azrai's expression turned to one of indifference. _He still hasn't forgiven me_, she thought.

Azrai was an Egyptian mercenary; very charismatic and lively, similar to his friend Adrien. He once loved working with her, admiring her respect she showed on the battlefield, whether they were enemy or friend. Joan figured that as she grew more popular and more 'holy', Azrai's respect towards the French heroine diminished. He felt that her attitude was drifting to be similar to the pompous French aristocrats. As soon as he sensed her change, he tried to avoid her at all costs.

In response, Joan frequently asked Adrien about Azrai, but her wouldn't answer and would change the subject. When she was sent to lead troops to Toulouse, she decided to approach Azrai herself, "_I wish to have someone there who knew the old me. The true me."_ Azrai warily agreed. After the French victory, Joan received high praise, but Azrai immediately tried to leave. She stopped him, "_Azrai? I would love to fight beside you again…"_

Azrai's look was stern, "_You asked me to fight beside because I knew the real you. Funny, I didn't see the old you at all this battle._"

Before she could respond, Azrai turned on his heel and walked away.

Now she faced Azrai, his face much the same way as it was the last time she saw him.

"Joan?" he gave a dry huff of laughter, "I should've known you'd be here."

She smiled, glad that he was at least speaking to her again. "Have you met with Adrien?"

Azrai nodded, "Although it wasn't a sober conversation."

"I see."

"Yes and he mentioned the most curious thing."

Joan swallowed, her expression worried.

Azrai realized he hit a chord. "He said that you have Prince Edward holed up in your rooms and that he is your…erm..." he leaned in closer and whispered, "…lover."

Her eyebrows rose. Lover? Joan didn't know where Adrien would've gotten that idea. He may have drunk at the time, but Adrien did have a knack on picking up on emotions before she herself would recognize them.

"Well, that drunkard knows how to make stories fly around," Azrai sighed.

"Indeed," she said distantly. "C-could I ask a favor?"

Azrai arched an eyebrow. She took that as a confirmation. "Could I borrow your razor?"

He gave her a calculating look, "My razor? As in the one I use to shave?"

She nodded. Azrai reached into his small sack and pulled out a silver razor, "Don't lose it please. It's the only one I have."

"I will return it as soon as possible. Thank you."

"No problem, I guess," Azrai gave her a half-wave as he watched her rush off. "Do I really want to know?"

A/N: I make some bold statements in this chapter. No beating around the bush. One thing I noticed throughout the game was that Prince Edward and Joan of Arc never really verbally bashed the opposite side. That was until I fought in Toulouse and Joan called the English "vile". I was like, holy crap lady, have you even met anyone from England? They are not animals. That was when my respect for her dropped totally within the game and I was trying to paint that feeling with Azrai's reluctance to fight alongside her. Never fear though, I do gain back my respect towards her. It was a temporary meltdown. I usually play on the English side anyway. I'm from Italy and Italians historically never really got along with the French. So I try to avoid them if I could in the game. It's just the stigma my heritage has. Nothing personal. Plus the English officers have this subtle charm. Azrai is mine, if I haven't made that clear already. I did include a quote from the game. And as always, Review please!!


	10. Part 10

Warning: Some fluffy weirdness ahead. Some of this could offend some people so take heed. I portray Joan as a human, with human affections and desires…

Part 10

Joan refilled the basin and retrieved a clean cloth. She scrubbed Azrai's razor thoroughly and as she washed the blade she thought of how to shave him. Let him shave himself was out of the question; that would leave risk of him harming her or himself.

The Prince seemed wary as he eyed the blade she was holding. Joan made sure the blade was at her side and she approached him passively. Silently she knelt down taking hold of Edward's jaw.

"Hold still," Joan whispered as she brought her face in closer.

Edward shivered as he felt the cool razor touch his cheek, but in contrast he felt her warm breath wash over the same spot. He remained as still as he could, trying hard not to make direct eye contact, as she drew the razor down his cheek, scraping away his light scruff. He swallowed as unrecognizable feelings and emotions washed over his body. Whatever the feelings were, they were undoubtedly the result of the nearness of this young woman. The responsiveness came from his body, not his brain.

A strange feeling started to settle low in Joan's belly as she continued to shave the Prince. She had little idea what the feeling was, but it was no longer the pity she felt towards him when she first took care of him. Joan told herself it was curiosity then gratitude for sparing her life at Cherbourg. Joan shook her head mildly as she knew those weren't the reasons why she felt this way.

He knew he was at her mercy and that at any given moment she could bare her fangs and treat him the same way the French nobles did. Yet if she wanted him dead she would have killed him by now. His feelings were filled with uncertainty; uncertainty about this girl and about himself.

Joan tried to keep her hand steady as she shaved his other cheek. He was silent, confused and uncertain, like a myriad of thoughts were swarming around in his head. As she felt the silkiness of his soft hair and the firmness of his jaw and the touch of his cold skin, her mind was sent spinning. Finally she took one last swipe, but then her mind left her body to its own volition. She could no longer deny the sensuality of this position…

She removed the blade from his cheek. Edward swallowed as he saw the look in her eyes. If he wasn't mistaken that was a look of…desire. His stomach clenched in anticipation.

He fought her body's urges long enough. Joan grabbed the cloth from beside her and brought it to the side of the Prince's face to wipe away any extra hair left on his cheek. Her touch was gentle and warm. Edward could not keep himself from leaning into her palm.

Joan's breath hitched when the prisoner pressed his cheek against the palm of her hand. Her control collapsed. She drew her hand away from his cheek and leaned in, pressing her lips gently to his cheek.

His mind was gone. When her warm lips rested on his cheek, he refused to listen to any protests his mind gave him. He tilted his head down so that his lips were just centimeters away from the curve of her neck.

She could feel his breath on her neck and knew he did all he could to restrain himself from actually touching her neck with his lips. That aside, the feeling of his nearness was very sensual beyond her comprehension and she felt a tug in her lower abdomen. Joan knew she went too far and clearly the young man was just as confused as she. Yet she was addicted to the intoxicating sensations she felt.

Quite suddenly, her sensible mind returned. Her eyes widened in shock and she withdrew. The Prince's expression did not change at her sudden action; he still had a submissive expression and her drew his knees up to hide the embarrassing evidence of his arousal.

"I-I do not know what came over me," Joan stated quietly more to herself than the Prince. Edward turned his body away to gain more slack in the shackles around his wrists and he buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Still embarrassed, Joan stormed out of the room.

***

The King of England, a tall majestic older man, usually within a thick fortress of dark armor, trotted on his horse along a dusty road with his entourage beside him, all on horses as well. This group consisted of the King's wife, the female general Philippa, John Chandos, the Captal de Buch, and the Duke of Lancaster. They all were traveling the road back to the fortress of Bordeaux, going home after a nice ride through the countryside of Aquitaine.

John Chandos, a rugged man with an eye-patch and a long gray beard, rode in between the King and the two ladies in the back, mostly because he wanted to avoid the Captal de Buch. The famed female commander and the King's wife were speaking softly about the beauty of the landscape, commenting on the beautiful shades of colors the trees held during this autumn afternoon. The King and the two other nobles were discussing the prospect of holding a tournament of games. Light talk made Chandos uneasy and he remained quiet.

"A tournament does appeal to me, Your Highness," Lancaster agreed. "Though not as exciting if your son will not be participating."

The mighty King gave a huff of dry laughter, "On the contrary, it should prove more interesting. Knights won't give up on the prospect of facing that boy."

Chandos flinched at the King's tone. The rugged military advisor was worried. He had not seen or heard from the Prince for quite some time, and he wondered why the King didn't seem concerned. Instead the King was talking merrily about a Princeless tournament. The Prince of Wales loved a fair fight in tournaments, but he was always crestfallen when knights would drop out of the jousting matches when they faced him. The Prince took the championship of every tournament he participated in, hands down, his skill unmatched by lesser knights. Just as well, the Prince was never a spectator and thirsted for a challenge, but more importantly the tournaments diverted his thoughts away from war and allowed him to have…fun.

But recently the Prince sadly hasn't been able to have fun. Chandos saw the will to enjoy anything disappear from the Prince, as he was stricken with illness and fatigue. The King of England seemed more vivacious than him.

"Do you agree Chandos?" the King spoke to the advisor from over his shoulder.

"Your Highness?"

"Do you agree that a sufficient tournament could be held in three days?" the King restated his question.

"I do not see any reason to disagree…" John Chandos replied.

As the nobility chatted, they were oblivious to the figure walking the road behind them. His steady walking pace caught up to the horses of the King's entourage, and the man walked through the horses trying to casually pass them. Only one problem: he was completely naked. As the man passed the group he casually greeted, "Hello good sirs…ladies," before continuing on. They stared after him in shock. The women in the back just looked at each other, but the other nobles' jaws went slack.

"Sir?" the Duke of Lancaster managed to find words. The man turned around causing the nobles' eyes to widen. The man was somewhat older, about a similar age to the King. He had short, disheveled gray hair and a short prickly gray beard. He was fairly well built and muscular for his age.

"Are you okay?" the Duke questioned.

"Yeah, I'm fine," the man assured, walking slowly up the road backwards.

"But you are…completely…nude."

The man looked down at himself before looking back at them, "So I am. And…?"

"Well…it is highly inappropriate. What happened?" the Captal de Buch glared down at the peasant who had the gall to walk in the presence of the King… naked, no less.

The man scratched the back of his head, "I'm not really sure to be honest. But I see no problem. I believe that anyone who is disgusted with seeing a nude person should be castrated and all of this…" he gestured towards his groin, "…should be sent to Paris, since the French seem to be in need of some stones. Am I rights ladies?" He waved at the two women in the back. The women waved tried hard not to laugh and waved back. That was the last straw for the nobles. "Good god, sir, you are in the presence of His Royal Highness the King of England! Show some respect and decency!"

The man shrugged. Appalled, the Captal de Buch drew his sword and pointed it at the nude man, "You try my patience, peasant!"

To everyone's surprise the King burst into laughter. The nobles stared at the King stunned. "Your Highness?"

"I knew your face looked familiar. Good Lord, you've gotten old, De La Hoya," the King chuckled.

"I can say the same for you, Your Highness. It's been a long time," the man smirked.

Chandos turned to the King, "You know this fellow?"

"Of course. Fredrico used to serve under me in my younger years. You should know this Chandos."

John Chandos thought that the name did sound familiar.

"Lancaster, please lend this man your coat," the King asked the Duke. The Duke hesitated, unsure and surprised, but obeyed and removed his outer coat, "Of course, Your Majesty."

He tossed it to Fredrico. The man wrapped it around himself quickly, "Ooh, nice fabric." Lancaster's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"What are you doing here, my old friend?" the King asked.

"Err…" De La Hoya blinked, "Oh yeah, well, I was supposed to be looking for someone, but I guess I got side-tracked."

The King gave a low chortle, "Please we must catch up during the evening feast and we should hope to find you some proper clothes."

***

La Hire was on his way to meet with de Rais when he spotted the Duke of Berry conversing with the King. At first, he chose to ignore it until he heard mention of Joan's name. Quickly, he pressed himself back behind the wall so he wasn't spotted.

"Ze Maid has had the prisoner long enough, Your Majesty, and my guards report that she had done nothing to him…"

The King gave a sigh, "I knew it wasn't in Joan's nature to keep a prisoner, but if she wanted him in her possession, she knew she would have to carry out tasks suited of a detainer."

Berry nodded in excitement, "Exactly, sir. Give the prisoner to me. I will show that English scum the might of France."

"No," the King responded in a bored tone. "She would never agree to that, but maybe a lesson could be taught…very well."

The Duke's head perked up.

"If Joan does not violate the Prince in the next three days, zen we will come with a better arrangement for of zem."

La Hire swallowed. He couldn't believe it. The King? Was this the real King? Why would His Majesty strive to ruin the life of one innocent girl? All over a young Prince.

La Hire rushed to the one man he knew would have answers: Lord de Rais.

A/N: I recently suffered a bout of writer's block so I watched a few movies to stir my story along. A scene many of you would recognize as a scene from _A Knight's Tale_. Fredrico's comment about nudity also resembles a line Ben Franklin makes in the _John Adams_ series. I love that line. As I have stated before, this story is rated M for a reason. So if things like this don't appeal to you, don't read it. I would be pissed if someone files a complaint after I have given clear warnings over the content of this story. Fredrico De La Hoya is my character. Thanks to all of my reviewers, because of all of you I have an incentive to write faster.


	11. Part 11

**Warning: This chapter contains severely mature material which some, given the situation, would find offensive. Don't like it, don't read it, and don't complain. You have been thoroughly warned.**

Part 11

De Rais was shocked when La Hire ran towards him like death was his heels, "What is the matter with you, La Hire?"

La Hire caught his breath glancing at the few soldiers that surrounded them. Luckily, they didn't seem terribly interested in hearing what La Hire was concerned about. Still, the large man leaned in and whispered, "De Rais, can I speak with you privately?"

De Rais' eyebrows shot up. It must be serious if La Hire needed to whisper. They both found a spot away from the group of soldiers so no one would hear them. La Hire told De Rais what he had heard. De Rais showed little emotion upon hearing La Hire's account of the King's conversation with the Duke of Berry.

"Why, De Rais? Why would the King do such a thing?" La Hire practically begged for an explanation that would clear the King's name. De Rais sadly could not give it.

"Any reason I could give would be that he is testing her resolve, her commitment to our cause," that was the best answer De Rais could give.

"What will he do to ze Maid if she doesn't…erm…you know?" La Hire did not want to have to think about it or let alone say it. He cringed at the thought of her doing such a despicable act.

De Rais answered in a blunt tone, "The King will no doubt imprison her as well. It seems that the life of someone who has given up so much for France means nothing in the King's eyes."

"Is there no way around this?" La Hire's voice cracked under the emotion, causing de Rais' eyes to widen with worry.

"Somehow, Berry and the King have been spying on them, unless we know who the spies are and how they get a hold of such information, I'm afraid zere is nothing we can do."

La Hire dropped to the ground, tears glistening in his eyes. "I think…" he sniffed, "Zis is the first time I questioned this fighting."

**

Curled up next to a tree outside the walls of Paris, Joan with arms over her lower abdomen tried to push away the thoughts and memories of the incident with Edward.

At least she wasn't the only one embarrassed. The look on Edward's face revealed that he too was just as confused as she was. She did worry, though, about how awkward the situation was going to be. She did not know how she would handle going back to her own rooms. What was she going to do?

"Girl?"

She looked up finding Lord La Hire looking down at her, Lord de Rais standing by his side arms folded. La Hire's face looked strangely sad and grim, de Rais' face was…unreadable. Still she was concerned. She moved to stand up but de Rais stopped her, "No, you might want to remain sitting. We have something to tell you."

Much to her surprise La Hire and de Rais sat down on the ground facing her.

"What's going on?"

La Hire glanced over at de Rais, "I can't tell her." He covered his eyes with his hands. That was never a good sign.

"Joan…" de Rais began to tell her the worst news she'd ever hear.

**

Edward grasped the sides of his head in quiet frustration. What was the he thinking? Why was he reacting this way? He was so confused about his feelings towards the girl's kiss. He was not used to being so confused, and he didn't like it. After the girl left, he was left with an erection that he hoped would go away. He never was left in such an embarrassing situation, nor did he know what to do about it. Of course he had some explicit tales from older home-sick soldiers, but he never wanted to think too much about it. But good God the girl was the enemy, his detainer. Yet he did remember all that she had did for him, she nursed him back to health and apparently saved him from being tortured by the citizens of Paris.

So this was the Maid of Orleans. The Angel in White Armor. Edward did admit that she certainly looked like an angel when he first saw her. Then, like now, he had no idea what was going on with his emotions.

He buried his face in his hands. He would no doubt die in this very uncomfortable situation.

**

"What?" she gasped after hearing what the King of France had planned. "You mean I have to…"

De Rais nodded, "I'm sorry but I see no way out of this."

"I see," Joan blinked back tears. A strong hand rested on her shoulder, she looked up staring into La Hire's face. A few tears escaped her eyes, and her friend took her into his large arms for a comforting embrace. "Everything will be alright," he said quietly as she sobbed into his breastplate.

Her two comrades walked her to her rooms. Her hand was on the doorknob, and de Rais stopped her, "Are you sure you want to go in there? You can stay in one of our rooms if you would feel more comfortable…"

Joan shook her head, "I'm not going through with it tonight. I think I'll be alright, thank you."

"If you need anything, let one of us know," La Hire said. Joan nodded, "I will. Good night." She opened the door and as she entered, she diverted her eyes from her captive. She could not bear to look at him for the moment, not because of what she did to him earlier, but because of what she will do to him. She shuddered at the thought. Joan didn't bother changing into her bedclothes and instead collapsed on the bed. She swallowed and sniffed back tears. After she exhaled, she started to sob into her pillow.

***

Fredrico De La Hoya plucked a hunk of meat from the duck served at the feasting table. "I must thank you, my friend, for the food and the clothes."

"It was my pleasure," the King of England chuckled. "Anything for an old friend, but my God, De La Hoya, what has happened since you left? It's been what? Twenty years?"

Fredrico stopped to think, "Yeah, about twenty-four years. Well I went home and opened a bakery."

The guests laughed, "A bakery?"

"Uh-huh," he stared at all of them, "What?"

The King shook his head, "It's hard to see a former soldier under the English forces turn into a baker."

"It's the only job I could find in Venice. My father was a merchant. Heh…it wasn't the life for me."

"And so being a baker was?" the King rose an eyebrow. The guests around the table chuckled. Fredrico took a large gulp of ale, "Yeah, yeah I get it. Like I said it was the only job I could get."

"Be careful with that drink. You never could stop drinking," the King nudged Chandos, "Would you believe that De La Hoya once went into battle plastered out of his mind?"

"But those were the days when I was rarely sober," He took another large swig of the ale.

"Why did you leave His Majesty's forces anyway?" the Duke of Lancaster asked.

De La Hoya shrugged, "I thought of just settling down. I got sick of fighting, I just wanted live a normal life."

The King rubbed his chin in thought, "I see, well that explains it."

"Speaking of settling down. What ever happened to that girl you were so insane about? What was her name? Oh yeah! Selena?" The King's expression changed into one of mild sadness, "She died."

Fredrico looked guilty, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the King gave a wry smile and looked adoringly at his wife, "I have my wife now."

"Ah, that's good."

"I take it you are going take up arms with me once again?" Fredrico put down his tankard of ale and shook his head, "I'm sorry my friend, I'm not going to recruit myself as an English soldier this time."

The King frowned in disappointment, "Then why are you in France?"

"I think I'm looking for a mercenary. So I guess I'll become one, temporarily. That way I will still be able to fight on your side in battles of my choosing."

The King smirked, "Yes and you can make pastries for the regiments while you are at it."

**

Edward didn't turn around when Joan of Arc entered the room, but he heard her crawl into her bed. Then, much to his surprise, he heard what he thought was crying. He dared to turn his head to find the girl sobbing into her pillow.

He couldn't explain it but he suddenly felt very protective over her. Some part of him wanted to find whoever had hurt her and break his windpipe. Another part wanted to comfort her. He shook away the protectiveness and concern and with an uneasy feeling listened to her cry until she fell asleep. He quietly listened to her soft breathing throughout the night and did not sleep a wink.

***

Joan didn't want to wake up that morning. Tears still streaked her cheeks from last night. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and got up. Although she dared not to look over at him, she could sense that the Prince was still awake.

When she left her chambers, she found La Hire and de Rais waiting for her. She took both of their hands and told them softly that she needed some time alone. Joan made her way across the plaza towards the Notre Dame Cathedral, not noticing Adrien giving her a concerned wave from the entrance of the tavern. She entered the gothic cathedral following the large group of people to listen to mass. She sat quietly while listening to the bishop. She listened carefully her hands folded in prayer.

After mass, people started to file out, leaving her alone in the church. She prayed for forgiveness. She prayed for guidance. She prayed for the Prince. '_God,'_ she pleaded in her mind, '_I seek your forgiveness. I give my chastity away to save the life of another…'_

In the church, Adrien stared at Joan quietly, wondering what was wrong. It was no secret that Joan was religious but she had sat there all morning. Adrien was not religious at all but when he saw Joan in the plaza, she was alone and distracted, so he decided to follow her. With a sigh, Adrien thought best to leave her alone to her thoughts.

Joan was oblivious to everything around her and continued to pray for forgiveness for the rest of the day. Little to her knowledge, her closest friends sat on the steps of Notre Dame waiting for Joan. It wasn't until dusk when they heard her emerge from the large Gothic doors, looking surprised to see the three men sitting at the steps.

They opened their mouths thinking of what to say. Adrien had little clue as to what was troubling Joan and, in his infinite wisdom, blurted, "Who wants a drink?" La Hire and de Rais turned to stare at the Italian mercenary who returned their gaze with a shrug, "What?"

Joan smiled, and bent down, "I don't know about a drink but something to eat would be wonderful." Adrien beamed when she smiled and stood up. De Rais and La Hire stared at each other wondering how and why Joan had become so moderately chipper in light of what was to become.

Joan knew that avoiding Adrien would cause him to become concerned. She could trust the mercenary with her life, but she was ashamed to tell him what she had to do in order to appease the King of France. No doubt he would do something drastic to save her honor. Honestly, she did not want him involved at all. It was something between her, the King of France, and apparently the Prince of Wales.

Joan entered the small tavern with her friends. She didn't eat or drink but became engaged in conversation in hopes that no one would notice her troubles. Adrien managed to pull a reluctant Azrai to the table. He came off uncomfortable at first but loosened after the conversations went on. Joan did remember to return his razor.

Around the time both La Hire and Adrien lost sobriety was when Joan decided to return to her quarters. Her stomach churned. She watched as her friends departed, de Rais dragging La Hire out of the tavern and Azrai dragging Adrien back to his room.

As she reached her room, she loosened her gown slightly, tears filling her eyes. Swallowing, she opened the door to her chambers. The Prince sat as he usually did with his pale back toward her. Quietly, not taking her eyes off him she reached to her nightstand, taking the leonine pendant from where she had kept it safe since it was torn from the Prince's neck. He felt her eyes on him. She could only give him a cold stare to try to keep her feelings from being revealed. The Prince swallowed, eyes worried. Joan calmly strode forward so she was in full view of him. His eyebrows drew together in concern. She bit back tears as loosened her gown even more and it fell to the ground in a puddle at her feet. That was when the Prince realized what was going to happen. Fear flashed across his face as he crawled backwards as far as he could away from her. The chains limited his movements and he was a trapped animal being stalked by a hunter. Why would she do this? Her nude form strode towards him deliberately and smoothly very much like a predator. He looked small as he stared up into her face as she looked down over him.

She reached over and grasped at his chains, giving them a sharp tug, binding his hands even more. Joan gripped his jaw to force him to look at her, but she didn't try to read his face. She devoured his lips in a forceful, violent kiss. At that point she was no longer in control of her body, nor was she Joan of Arc any longer. The Prince couldn't move. Her grip on his chains became tighter and with one more tug she forced Edward to the ground on his back. Prince Edward coughed trying to steady his breathing. Joan's hands trailed to his dirty, torn pants; she pulled them down roughly. The Prince strained against his chains in vein. She ran her fingertips along his hipbone and the scar on his thigh, inching ever closer to his manhood. She violated him with her hands mercilessly before inching her body closer, preparing to forcefully take him within her body. She looked up finding the young man with his arm draped over his eyes in shame and pain. Joan inched her pelvis further up the Prince's body near his hipbone and lower abdomen and rotated her hips. Edward gritted his teeth, and a tear ran down from the corner of his eye. Joan leaned over and took a hold of his hand, placing his pendant inside securely.

"Please, forgive me," she whispered in his ear. She stood looking down at his broken form, the remnants of her assault spattered all over his abdomen. Quietly she picked up her gown and left the room, leaving the Prince shivering in the corner.

A/N: There it is. Sorry it took so long to update. I just got a new computer and I've been trying to configure it. As I said before, if this stuff offends some of you, sorry. But I WARNED you. I will be very angry if this gets pulled off because of complaints. But do not worry, it will get better after a few troubling moments.


	12. Part 12

Part 12

Joan returned to Notre Dame in hopes of sleeping there for the night but she couldn't. How could she? She just performed an act that was against her very nature. She hoped her plan worked, but she would have to find out tomorrow. Still, she felt disgusted with herself and dirty, yet she knew that Edward probably felt a thousand times worse.

La Hire sat outside of the tavern, feeling as though an iron clamp were fixed tightly to his head. The painful ache was ignored when he spotted one of the King's personal soldiers speaking to a male servant. He focused his attention on the two, inching closer to try to hear them over the morning market crowd.

"Sire, she did what the King wanted last night," the servant trembled.

"You are sure?" the soldier responded in a brisk tone. The servant shrank slightly.

"Yes sire…can I go now?"

The soldier waved him away and the servant ran away as fast as he could. La Hire's heart sank. He knew they were talking about Joan. She went through with it. He felt angry; angry that the King would destroy an innocent girl's virtue.

A shadow loomed over him. Adrien found La Hire looking like he felt the same way he did. Sore. The sunlight caused his head to throb as he entered the street, but he saw La Hire staring intently at a soldier and a servant. After the servant ran from the soldier, the look on La Hire's face changed.

"How are you doing?" he asked the larger man. La Hire looked up, surprised. "My head hurts a little…" La Hire answered rubbing his temple, but smirking none the less. Adrien smiled back, "I feel the same. Where's de Rais?"

La Hire shrugged, "I just saw him leave. He should be back in any moment."

Adrien raised an eyebrow and smirked, "And I thought you two were inseparable."

La Hire didn't pay attention to Adrien's comment. He spotted de Rais coming down the street. Adrien turned around, spotting de Rais as well. With a sigh, he patted La Hire's shoulder. "Take it easy, comrade." La Hire nodded gratefully, and watched as the mercenary quietly passes de Rais.

"De Rais?" La Hire stood.

"I have received word that Joan is in the Cathedral…" he noticed La Hire's depressed look. "What is it?"

"She did it," La Hire answered in minor disbelief. "Ze girl went through with it…"

De Rais sighed. He didn't want to admit it, but he hated seeing his usually energetic friend so down. He patted his shoulder, "Come, let's go see her."

They waited by the doors, watching people file out looking for any sign of Joan. She was the last one to leave. They met up with her.

"Joan…" they began, unsure of what to say, but La Hire's voice said, unusually quiet, "We've heard that you performed what ze King asked…"

Joan's eyes widened slightly. _They thought I actually did it?_

"You did…erm…violate the Prince, did you not?" de Rais asked.

"Well, yes, I guess but…"

De Rais and La Hirew stared at each other at her hesitance. "But what?"

Joan paused, unsure of how to word her distress, "I didn't…give my body in the process."

La Hire's voice returned to its usual roar, "That's good!" He stopped noticing Joan's unhappy state, "Err, isn't it?"

She brushed passed them, "No it's not. It's selfish. I feel sickened with myself. I left the Prince broken and I…I gave away nothing…sacrificing nothing. I should at least be punished in some way for committing such an act."

"No," de Rais bit out. Joan turned a little shocked, "How can you say that?"

De Rais blinked, "You were prepared for the consequences of such actions and you were willing to make such a sacrifice to save someone's life. It doesn't matter that you didn't lose your virtue. What matters is that you thought of that boy's life instead of your own. You shouldn't be ashamed."

De Rais rarely showed such emotion. Such doubt Joan cast upon herself, infuriated him. Did she not realize how much she meant to her friends? As antisocial and unfriendly de Rais was, he took friendship and trust seriously and relished it.

The girl was taken aback. Gilles de Rais' small, stern explanation touched her to the core. With watery eyes she stared lovingly at her two friends, before falling into their embrace. She knew and took comfort that La Hire, de Rais, De La Hoya; all of her friends would follow her to the ends of the earth in order to protect her.

***

Back at Cherbourg, the field was alive with clashing warriors. The sky was dull and cloudy and the air was ice cold, the slicing air that marked the beginning of winter. Lord le Bon struggled to push his diminished unit through the enemy soldiers. His brow was bleeding, sliced open from a stone thrown at him, and sweat dripped down his face in spite of the cold. He thrust his lance downward at an English foot soldier, plunging it through the armor. Le Bon steered his horse around facing the battlefield. They were losing, but much to his surprise some English units were retreating and the soon the English forces completed a formal and safe retreat. What was going on?

***

"Fastolf!" Talbot roared, "You did it again! What is wrong with you?!"

John Fastolf sat on his horse watching the small English force retreat. "I'm having my fun," he gave a sadistic smile.

"Why did you retreat? We would have been victorious!" Talbot's face went read with annoyance and anger.

"Think with your brain, Talbot. The French know Cherbourg is lost. We are just waiting for the Prince's forces to get back on their feet. Hopefully, the weakened French forces would be easy prey for them."

"I don't believe this…"Talbot pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, lighten up," Fastolf sighed.

***

Philippe le Bon pressed himself against the wall of his chilled chambers, leaving the door wide open. He was exhausted and injured, barely able to stand on his legs. The cut on his brow was deeper than expected and it continued to bleed down his cheek. He slid down the wall to the floor. His eyes tried to focus on his room but darkness finally overcame him.

He awoke in his bed, a warm fire crackling in the fireplace, and the covers tucked securely over his shoulders. He felt something wrapped around his head, and le Bon reached up and felt the soft cloth of the bandage wrapped around his head, covering the injury on his brow.

Sitting up and looking around, he found that the room was empty. The door to his room opened. Marie, dressed in her usual armor entered, seemingly healed.

"You're up? I had no idea you were well enough," he croaked, his throat scratchy and dry.

"I was up early enough to see ze battle, but zose nurses wouldn't allow me to leave ze castle.

He felt embarrassed, "You saw ze battle? It wasn't good, was it?"

"Terrible," she answered bluntly as she sat at the edge of his bed. "Are you okay?" she boldly brushed his blond, wavy bangs away from his eyes, color rising in her cheeks.

"I think so," he breathed.

Marie drew her hand down to cup his cheek. Suddenly, her lord drew her into a tight embrace.

"Lord Philippe?"

"I thought I lost you Marie," he whispered, swallowing the tightness in his throat.

"No, I'm here," she responded, gently stroking his back.

A/N: This is the part where all you readers say 'awwww'. This story does have many significant side-plots just to keep things moving when I have a block in the main plot. Thanks to all the readers so far. You guys are the greatest!


	13. Part 13

Part 13

Joan awoke in the spare tavern bedroom; she still could not go back to her rooms in the castle. She could not bear facing the Prince after assaulting him. Joan looked outside staring at the white blanket of snow that fell over night. She hadn't realized winter was so close but judging by the surprised and excited faces of the children, the snow was a sudden and unexpected occurrence.

For Joan, it proved compromising. She left her cloak in her rooms. She clearly did not think everything through, but luckily she could always ask a servant of the castle to retrieve her belongings. _Or you could grow a backbone and get them yourself,_ she thought bitterly.

At the moment she had no backbone, and instead rushed to the palace, shivering as she entered. A young servant greeted Joan, originally prepared to take her cloak but was surprised to find that she had none. Kindly, she asked him to retrieve a cloak from her room. The servant nodded and scurried off.

Joan waited only for a few moments but when the servant returned, he rushed to her, cloak in hand but face contorted in panic, "My lady!"

"What is it?"

"It's…it's the Prince," he gasped for air, "He's gone!"

The chilly room just got colder. Joan grasped her cloak and rushed out the door. She barely made it two steps outside the castle when three gunmen scrambled to her. "Lady of Arc! We spotted the prisoner making his way towards the woods. We had no choice but to shoot him."

"You shot him!"

The gunmen nodded, "We warned him…We were guarding the road when we saw him. He wouldn't heed our warning, so we had to fire."

Joan shook her head, "Where is he now?"

"We don't know, he managed to get away."

"He is probably still out there," Joan breathed and rushed out of the gates of Paris, the gunmen in tow.

**

Edward weakly followed the road out of Paris. He was half-naked and cold, and soon, he knew, he would collapse. The snow made his mobility even harder as he trudged on the side of the road.

"Hey! That's the Prince! Stop!" He looked to the side. Three gunmen were pointing their weapons at him, "Halt!"

It would be hard to make a break for it, but it would be worth a try. Before he made a move a loud "CRACK!" resounded, causing the few winter birds to scatter from the trees.

Edward was blown backwards as he was hit in the chest. The pressure and the searing pain spread all throughout his chest, taking his breath away. He scrambled to his feet and dove into the woods before they could take another shot.

He didn't stop to look back, he just moved as fast as he could through the snow and trees, hand over his chest. The pain increased severely and he felt hot, sticky liquid flow over his hands. He didn't dare look down; he just kept moving, his legs getting weaker and his vision blurring. Edward stumbled and fell to his knees. He looked down at his hand that clutched his chest. He watched as red fluid dripped from his hand onto the whiteness of the snow.

He let out a long breath before falling foreword. He noticed a cloaked figure with a long-handled scythe striding slowly towards him. Death? Could it be the end? Well, his life was already hanging by a thread. Perhaps it was the end. Edward's vision blacked out, as several other shadows gathered around him.

**

Azrael stood over the half-naked, cold young man, his minions gathering around. Azrael jerked his head towards the body, one cowl-headed figure moved foreword, bending down to roll the boy's body over. Azrael bent down as well, staring at the bleeding chest. On closer examination, there was a bullet hole in the middle of his chest. His minion gripped his arm, pointing to the wound. Crevices in the skin spread, vein-like from the center of the wound. A shiny red shimmered within the crevices and the bullet never pierced the skin. The boy's silver pendant miraculously stopped the bullet but was imbedded into his chest. The red jewel had shattered, the red pieces imbedded into the crevices.

In ancient Egyptian tongue, the minion asked his leader, "Is this the Prince?" Black Scythe wiped the blood away from the wound, taking a look at the distorted pendant. He took a small knife out and carefully separated the metal bullet ball from the pendant, revealing what would've been a lion's head shape.

"Yes," Azrael answered, pointing to the imbedded pendant. He turned back to his other warriors, "Take him. We'll get him cleaned up before we return him to the English." The warriors lifted the Prince from the ground preparing to carry him.

Azrael's minion touched his master's shoulder. "How could he have gotten such a pendant?"

Black Scythe did not turn, but answered, "Simple, Marut. His mother…"

Marut's eyes grew wide, watching Azrael's squad disappear into the forest.

**

"We shot him here," the gunmen pointed to the spot along the side of the road. Joan noticed red splotches on the snow. The blood drops trailed in one direction along side some foot prints. She followed the trail into the woods. The gunmen followed her shrugging. The trail drew them further and further away from Paris and deeper and deeper into the woods.

Finally the blood droplets stopped, following into a larger pool of blood and a large man-sized imprint in the snow. Several foot-prints stood around the imprint.

"He was found," Joan said to the gunmen, "But by whom?"

"The nearest English fortress is about a two day walk from here," a gunman informed. "We could search the nearby farms to see if zere are holding him."

"No," Joan shook her head. "Leave the people out of this."

"But zey could be holding…"

"The last thing these people need is soldiers knocking on their doors and raiding their homes."

**

Karen, as she entered the mercenary tavern, walked past Georges bickering at a meek boy named William.

"Don't be foolish," Georges raged, "This is not a game. If you can't fight you will not survive a battle."

"But I…"

Georges grabbed William's collar in anger, overpowering the boy in spite of the height difference. Karen stood up, "Hey! Leave him alone!" Georges gave her a stunned look, releasing William. The blond boy backed away. Georges grunted in disapproval but sat back at his table next to his brother and Magnus. Karen moved over to join them.

"Why are you guys so hard on him?" Karen asked giving all three men scolding looks. Adrien sat down nest to Karen carrying mugs. "What's going on? Ah, Georges, so you're here. I thought I saw a boy reduced to tears."

Georges glared at the larger mercenary, murmuring, "Bastard."

"William is trying his hardest," Magnus said staring distantly at his mug, "But Georges is right. Fighting is not pretty, neither is being a mercenary."

"All he needs is someone to teach him some tips and basics," Marc argued.

Georges snorted, "I certainly won't be doing it…"

"Ah, well while you guys figure that out, I'm going to get another drink," Adrien scooted out of his chair, and walked up to the bar.

"We could do a joint effort…" Magnus suggested.

"No way," Georges bit out stubbornly, "It would be a wasted effort."

Karen rolled her eyes, "I beg to differ, he just needs to get used to the battlefield."

The door to the tavern opened and an older man stumbled in, brushing snow off his leather armor and clothing. "It's cold enough to freeze a bull's balls off," he grumbled.

Adrien heard a familiar slurred, rough voice and he turned in shock. "What the hell?"

The gray-headed man stumbled over to the table were Marc, Karen, Magnus, and Georges sat. They stared at the already tipsy man. "So, how's the ale here?" the man asked plopping himself down. They all stared at each other. This guy seemed entirely all too familiar.

"What in God's name do you think, you're doing here?!" Adrien came over and glared at the man. The others looked up at him. "You know him?" Karen asked.

The old man snorted, "Hah! I've found you."

Adrien ignored the man, "This is a wasted hog."

"Ouch, son," the old man said with a smirk, "I'm this asshole's father."

Marc snorted in his cup, "What?"

"I can see it," Magnus said with a chuckle.

"Bull," Adrien snarled, "I'm nothing like that soggy old man."

"Ah, boy," Adrien's father sighed as he got up and approached the bar. He called over his shoulder, "Since we neglected to go through formal introductions. My name is Fredrico De La Hoya."

Fredrico asked the barkeep something softly. Adrien, still furled, said, "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here? What happened to the bakery?"

Fredrico held up a paper that the bartender gave him, "I'm a mercenary for now. And apparently this gentleman wants someone to teach him the art of war."

"You're a baker. What do you know about war? Why aren't you taking care of the shop?"

Fredrico arched an eyebrow and shrugged, "You're mother can take care of the bakery."

"Yeah, since you were too wasted to manage it anyway," Adrien said softly to himself.

"Yes, well, now I ask you, Adrien. Why are _you _a mercenary? You just left without warning…"

Adrien wasn't prepared for his father's question. "Err…"

William appeared at the bar, staring at the paper in Fredrico's hand, a slight smile forming on his lips. "Are you accepting my request, sir?"

The elder De La Hoya turned his head to look at the young boy. "Yeah, that guy over there and I are going to train you." He pointed a finger at Adrien.  
"Wait! What!?" Adrien protested.

"Awww, come on. Show some kindness, son. I can't train him on my own."

Adrien placed his hands on his hips, giving his father a questioning look, remaining silent. Finally he answered, "Alright, but I won't call you father."

Fredrico's eyebrows drew together, "What will you call me then?"

**

"Alright, Friar Dickweed, what's next?"

Adrien, Fredrico, and William were standing by the stables of the tavern. Fredico pulled open a sack and started taking out the various weapons one by one, throwing them all in a pile at William's feet. "We'll start with the basics. Pick up any weapon."

William hesitated, his hand drifting towards the spear. Fredrico grew slightly impatient, "Well, boy, pick one up."

"Y-Yes, sir," William picked up the rusty spear and his trainer crossed his arms.

"Now, you'll want to pick up a shield."

Still shaking, William obeyed. As he looked up, a thick snowball hit him square in the forehead. He grunted and stumbled backwards.

"So much for reflexes," Adrien muttered holding William's shoulder to keep him from falling backwards from the impact. He turned to the perpetual drunk, "You don't think you threw that a little too hard?"

Fredrico snorted, "It was either a harmless snowball or a stone."

"What was the purpose of that anyway?" William asked softly.

"I was seeing if you actually knew how to use the spear or shield."

"And the answer is no," Adrien teased lightly clapping William on the back, making the poor boy's knees buckle.

"Rule number twelve: Never show weakness to the enemy," Fredrico said, "We need to build up your confidence a bit."

A/N: I took a line from _Talladega Nights_ because I imagined the strained father-son relationship to be similar to the characters in the movie. Plus I based Fredrico's character on Reese Bobby. Azrael is the name of the Islamic Archangel of death, ...need I say more. I told you all that the pendant is important to the story. Also, within the game, guns were around during this time, but they were weak and inaccurate. Either way one thing's for sure: Edward can't get a break.


	14. Part 14

Part 14

It was four days since Cherbourg was taken by the English, causing Philippe le Bon to retreat back to Odon, head hung in defeat. The King of France was to meet with him at any moment. His men thought it was to go over strategies to retake Cherbourg, but he felt that His Majesty did not seek to have him remain in such an important position any longer.

The sound of hoof and foot beats and clattering of golden armor announced the arrival of His Majesty. Lord le Bon was considerably calm when a guard came through his study door to inform him of the King's arrival. Without a word, he stood from his desk and proceeded to follow the guard out of the small castle.

He stood at the entrance of the Odon fortress watching as the King trotted through on his horse. Le Bon and his men fell to their knees, bowing to their sovereign. The King silently jumped off his horse, to stand in front of Philippe.

Philippe dared not to raise his head, but from his peripherals he could see the King standing in front of him, one hand gripping his cane, the other on his hip. The King remained quiet, staring down at the Duke of Burgundy with an unrecognizable expression. If anything, his face portrayed absolute calmness, leaving Philippe's soldiers nervous with anticipation.

The King lifted his cane, bringing it back, before slamming it on the side of le Bon's head. "You 'ave failed me for ze last time, Burgundy!"

Le Bon's soldiers jumped at the King's sudden act of violence toward their lord. Philippe lay sprawled on the ground, blood seeping from the dent on the side of his head. The King crushed the cane into the Burgundian's ribs. The soldiers, including Marie, could only watch helplessly as the King furiously continued to beat their lord with a cane. Panting, the King finally plunged his cane into the ground, staring with wild eyes at le Bon's bloodied form. "You're usefulness has just run out," he said with a sneer. The King turned to his own soldiers, "Move out, we'll leave Cherbourg alone for now."

The large golden regiment turned in an orderly fashion, waiting for their King to lead them away from Odon. The King of France mounted his horse and turned away, trotting through the lines of his golden soldiers to the front. As he left the entrance of Odon, le Bon's soldiers immediately rushed to the body. Marie was the first to reach him, frantically trying to find a pulse. The one she found was weak, "He's still alive."

"What could've possessed ze King to do such a thing?" a soldier asked.

"I'm not sure, but we have to get Lord Philippe back to Burgundy as soon as possible," Marie said wiping away the blood from the Duke's face.

"What about Odon?" a knight asked.

Biting her lip, Marie thought of an auxiliary strategy. At the moment, splitting the forces in half was the only viable solution she could come up with. "One half of ze regiment will go with us to Burgundy while ze other half will remain here."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the soldiers. "Well, does anyone else have a better idea? Ze way back to Burgundy is not a safe one to go alone," Marie glared at the surrounding soldiers.

"Yeah, I have a better one," a voice called in the crowd. The soldiers turned, trying to find the owner of the voice. A tall, tan-skinned man with long dark brown hair and wearing a red and white military burnoose pushed his way through the crowd.

"You!" Marie exclaimed. She did not seem at all pleased when she saw Azrai. "What genius idea could you have possibly come up with?"

Azrai rolled his eyes. "Yeah, nice to see you too," he muttered disdainfully. "My idea was that you could have me and my crew act as your bodyguards while the regiment would remain here."

Marie scoffed, "A two week journey with you? No way."

Azrai shrugged, "Well, it's either that or have him dead, Odon destroyed and quite possibly the English taking complete control of Normandy. It's your choice."

Her face softened and she turned her head to gaze down at le Bon's head cradled in her lap. She thought of what he would do, but Azrai smirked, "I thought so."

Along the border of Champagne and Ile-de France, Black Scythe and his shadow soldiers drifted across the snowy plain towards an abandoned farm house. They carried with them a frail Prince Edward of England. Azrael pointed to the desolate farm house, "We'll stop here to heal him, before we go back to Normandy."

They reached the house, finding that the door was either frozen or nailed shut. Marut kicked the door open. The house may have belonged to farmers but the inside revealed that the former occupants did very well for themselves. The furnishings weren't lavish, but looked comfortable, including the bed. The two men carrying the Prince lay him on the bed and another man went over to light the fire.

Azrael removed the blanket from the Prince's body, delicately running his fingers over the pendant fused in his chest. Marut approached him from behind, "What exactly did you mean about his mother, sir?"

Azrael did not answer and instead lifted open one of the Prince's eyelids. The eye was half-rolled up into the back of his head. Azrael made a sound of curiosity, nudging Marut, "Look." He directed his gaze to Edward's eye. Looking closely, Marut found that the portion of Edward's iris that was visible was a distinct red color.

"What is that?" Marut exclaimed.

Azrael let the eyelid drift back downward, saying vaguely, "His mother's blood is dormant no longer. This Prince could be very dangerous indeed."

"I am not sure I understand sir."

Black Scythe gave a light sadistic chuckle, "His mother was a priestess from Kemet and married the King of England."

"That's impossible. A Christian royal would never marry a non-Christian priestess."

Azrael shook his head, "She disguised herself as a princess from one of the Spanish territories in order to study the English court system and my guess is she fell in love with the now King of England. I do know that not long after they married, she became pregnant but died giving birth to _him._" Azrael pointed at the unconscious Prince. "That jewel on his necklace is a rare stone only found in the Kemetic city of Bubastis. Only those who hold the blood line of the rulers of Bubastis can carry such a stone and I have heard that it has magical powers of some sort."

Salif placed an arm around young Marut, "The dervish sect most of us belong to are dedicated to protecting such ancient secrets. Azrael himself was taught in the same village as the Prince's mother."

Azrael eyes narrowed in on Edward's lower abdomen.

"What is that sticky stuff on him?" Marut asked as Azrael wiped his finger over the dry, sticky substance found on the Prince's lower abdomen. He stuck the finger in his mouth to taste it, but almost immediately he spit it out in disgust, coughing.

"What is it?"

Grimacing, Azrael answered, "If didn't know any better, I think it's semen."

"Semen?"

Azrael nodded in exasperation, "What in Ra's name went on there?"

Adrien fell asleep at one of the tables at the mercenary's tavern after drinking all night. His father and William came in with buckets of cold water. Fredrico took one pail and splashed the water on Adrien. He yelped and bolted up-right.

"When was the first crusade?" Fredrico asked quickly. Dazed Adrien blinked and sputtered, water pouring down his face, "Wha…?"

The old man grabbed another bucket from William and splashed it on Adrien again. "What type of wood is used for lances?"

Coughing, Adrien said, "The hell should I know…"

Fredrico shook his head and once again threw another pail of water on his son. "Longbows or crossbows: which is better?"

Adrien sputtered giving him a quizzical look. Fredrico took another pail from William, but Adrien stopped him, "Wait! Wait! Longbows are easier and faster to reload. The crossbow is more powerful and accurate. But if the archers significantly skilled in longbows they will always trump crossbows."

Fredrico paused, narrowing his eyes before nodding, "You're right." He threw the water on him anyway.

"Hey! What was that for?"

Fredrico shrugged, "We filled up four buckets."

Adrien gave him a confused look but his father said, "C'mon, we're going to the stables. I need you to take William out there."

"This better be good."

Adrien led William out to the stables. As he opened the wooden gate, he sighed, "I wonder what he's up to."

"Now, Will, you know how to ride a horse right?" Fredrico came up behind them, carrying a leather flask of a strong alcoholic beverage. William nodded. "Good."

He strode over to a small brown horse with a saddle already strapped to its back.

"We'll be testing your speed on a horse today." He patted the horse, "Underneath this saddle is a large stolen bag of gold. I just informed the two mercenaries it belongs to that you have it."

Color drained from William's face, "What?"

Fredrico clapped his hands, "Up! Up! Let's get moving!"

In the distance they could hear the cursing of two large mercenaries. William quickly mounted the horse and stormed out of the stables.

"Hey!" the mercenaries shouted as they watched William ride off. They climbed on top of their horses and sped off after the blond boy. The De La Hoyas casually watched the two mercenaries ride after William. Adrien took a few steps away from his father, eyeing him nervously, "You are a horrible old man, aren't you."

William sped his horse up the road, daring not to look back. He could hear the hoof beats of the mercenaries' horses close behind. He veered off the road onto a rolling plain, galloping as fast as his horse could in the snow.

The two mercenaries were gaining on him and the plain made a steep dip ahead and it would be difficult to maneuver through. The mercenaries caught up to William, flanking his sides. William made a split second decision and quickly pulled on his reigns causing his horse to make an abrupt halt. Both mercenaries were caught off guard and tried to stop their horses, but the horses skidded and tumbled over the slope.

Calmed that he eluded the mercenaries, William turned his horse around and galloped towards the road. After traveling along the road back to the tavern, William stopped his horse and hopped off, heart still rapidly beating. With shaking hands, he unlatched the saddle and reached under, finding a small leather pouch. He lifted it out finding that the pouch seemed a lot lighter than anticipated. He opened the bag, dumping the contents on his hand. The sack didn't contain gold, but wood chips instead. A small note fell out. William straightened the note fell out, finding sloppy handwriting, with several misspellings but he could make out the message:

_How dos it feel to get som stones, Will? You culd be reddy to take the field. Don't try buying equipment with thees wuud chips._

_-Fredrico_

William sighed at the note, finally understanding the hell the old man put him through.

A/N: Yeah that last scene was also from _Talladega Nights_. Stay tuned to find what happens to Edward now that his mother's blood has made its presence. Also I can sense a few going "What the hell?" when le Bon was practically obliterated by the French king. Well read on. Reviews please!!


	15. Part 15

Part 15

It was almost a week since Marie left Odon. She had placed Philippe le Bon in a horse-drawn cart and made the trek with the mercenaries to Burgundy, hoping beyond that her master would still be alive by the time they got there. In spite of the harsh blizzards the path to Burgundy wasn't too difficult since the road was surrounded by thick forests. Although she wouldn't admit, Marie thought that Azrai and his company were helpful. He made sure that Lord le Bon was warm during the nights when they could not reach an inn.

"You must admit," Azrai said to Marie while walking up the road, "we are moving along quite well. At this rate, we should be safely in Burgundy in no time."

"Zat's good," she said looking into the cart at the still unconscious form of the Duke of Burgundy. The nurses did their best to heal him before they left Odon, they managed to heal Philippe enough so that he would remain stable for a while, but he would not recover for a long time, if he survived at all. "He can get ze care and rest he needs as soon as possible."

Azrai nodded in agreement, "And then you could be rid of my presence and I could be rid of yours."

Marie rolled her eyes, "You mercenaries should at least show some appreciation to men like Lord Philippe…"

She broke off as a wave of nausea hit her like a ton of bricks. Quickly, she sprang to the side of the road and retched in the nearby bushes. Azrai stopped, staring after her with a curious look on his face. After Marie was certain the nausea left, she weakly returned to the road. She glanced at Azrai noticing his worried expression.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Marie gave an assured nod, "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? This sickness has been going on for almost the entire trip."

Marie looked away. Azrai's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her body language and behavior. He moved over to her, half-dragging her by the shoulders before setting her down. "I need you to take your clothes off."

"Not on your life," she ground in a low threatening voice.

Azrai jerked his head in a submissive nod, "Okay, I guess I knew you wouldn't approve of that, so…" He reached over to gently palm her breast.

Appalled and shocked Marie smacked his hand away and slapped him full in the face, "What in the Lord's name do you think you are doing!?"

Azrai blinked and quirked his aching jaw, "If you would just trust me…"

"Not after that!" Marie crossed her arms. Azrai's shoulders drooped, "Okay, maybe I was too bold. But do they feel tender or sore at all?"

Marie stopped to think about and shrugged, "I guess they do. More than usual actually."

Azrai stood up and swallowed. "I think you might be pregnant," he said in a nervous tone.

Marie let out a sigh. _That would explain it._ "Are you sure?"

"Well, no. I'd have to take a look at your…private areas to be sure, but I'm positive you're not going to let me do that."

"Not with zem standing around," she pointed to Azrai's men. "I'll have a nurse look at me when we get to Burgundy. How do you know that I may be with child?"

Azrai offered his hand, "My mother is a midwife and medicine woman back home."

"Oh."

"Please tell me you know who the father is," Azrai helped her up.

She brushed herself off. "I do…" she trailed off, her eyes shifting towards the cart carrying Lord le Bon. Azrai followed her glance and turned his head to look at the cart. He got the clue. "Oh you've got to be kidding me!" he exclaimed disdainfully, "How did you manage that?"

"It's none of your business."

"That explains why you two are on a first name basis. Are you going to tell him?" Azrai asked pulling the horse forward and motioning to his men to resume their way.

Marie shrugged, "First I know for sure, but do you think it's a good idea?"

"Well," the mercenary began in a distant tone, "He is a noble. How's the Illegitimate-Child and Sex-Outside-Marriage policies here?"

"Not as stringent as it used to be." During times of struggle, the social shackles were loosened to demand more control on more urgent problems.

"Well in either case, if I fathered a child, even outside marriage, I would want to know."

"I'm still not sure."

"You are dealing with a noble here. You are going to have to trust him." Marie gave Azrai a pointed look and he took a few steps away from her, "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

***

"So how'd you like the set up?"

Henry Percy gritted his teeth as he heard the aristocratic voice of John Fastolf. For some reason, Fastolf always made Hotspur nervous.

After the battle, Henry had maneuvered his men and the rest of the Prince's army into Cherbourg. Fastolf just sauntered in on his horse into Cherbourg to give his congratulations to the Princeless regiment.

"What are you talking about?" Hotspur ground out.

Fastolf smirked, "Certainly, you wouldn't believe the French forces were _that_ weak to start with. We decided to trim the forces so you can…how do you say…get your manhood back."

Percy exhaled, crossing his arms, "It was enough to raise morale…"

"My lords!" a guard rushed from the entrance gates, "Lord Chandos has arrived!"

Both commanders looked at each other, surprised. Lord Chandos galloped through the gates, stopping his horse upon seeing John Fastolf and Hotspur Percy.

"Ah, good sirs, I congratulate you on this victory, but could you direct me to the Prince. I must apologize for not arriving sooner."

"The Prince?" Fastolf and Percy glanced at each other. John Fastolf gave Percy a look as if to say, '_You didn't tell him?'_ Henry Percy cleared his throat, "Sir Chandos…After the first assault…" His eyes flicked over to Fastolf beside him, seeking aid. Said horseman quirked an eyebrow, indicating that he was keeping his mouth shut. "…the Prince, he was…we believed he was captured a little more than a month ago, during the initial assault."

Percy and Fastolf cringed, ready for a tirade.

"What!?" Chandos hollered so loud that many squadrons nearby looked over and stared at the beat-red Lord. "How is that possible?!"

"Erm…" Fastolf began and Henry Percy shrugged. Chandos continued his rant, "Why was I not informed of this?"

"We did inform the King," Percy said, growing concerned that Chandos, being closest to the King over the last few months, had not received news that the Prince was missing. Chandos sat still on his horse. The King knew? Why did he not mention this or seem worried at all? Why hadn't he sent a search party for his own son?

Chandos did know why. The King of England held a grudge of some sort against the Prince for taking his first wife away. The King loved his first wife and when she died in childbirth, giving birth to Prince Edward, the King alienated the boy. Yet still, how could any rational thinking father leave his son for the wolves and feel fine about the next day?

The guard returned looking stunned, "My lords, they've found…Prince Edward."

A/N: Oooh drama. I really don't know the semantics of how medieval midwifes found out if a woman was pregnant or not, so I just used a simple two plus two equation for Azrai. I have done some research on Prince Edward and let me tell you…there's not much information on him. He's kinda clouded in mystery. But on Wikipedia (I tried to avoid using that as a resource) it said that his mother did not die during childbirth. So that part of my story is false, but it explains the King's attitude problem with his son in the game. More "What the #!&^*" events to come up in the next chapter.


	16. Part 16

Part 16

The King of France was furious when he found that Joan's prisoner of war escaped. The Duke of Berry even more angry, but more importantly, furious at Joan and tried to prove that she was connected with Edward's escape. However, Joan was never allowed to have the keys to his shackles; she just kept him in her room for 'treatment'. At the very least, Joan knew that neither the King nor the Duke found the Prince, but who did? Could some wandering English soldiers have stumbled upon him? Most likely some farmers or travelers found him. Still, for several nights and image of him, blood spattered on his body haunted her nightmares. Every time she stared at the snow blanketing the ground, she was reminded of the Edward's blood pooled on the white snow.

Though Joan wouldn't admit it, there was a void ever since the Prince escaped. She did her best to forget what she had done to him but her actions still would appear in her nightmares.

Joan was ordered to move towards Aquitaine in hopes of capturing fortresses around Bordeaux. It was a harsh trip nonetheless. The winter cold caused the wagons to ice over. Eventually they arrived at the edge of Aquitaine and made preparations for an assault.

Then word was received that Cherbourg fell to the English and Joan had not heard anything from Lord le Bon. Some mentioned that he was at Odon but others said otherwise, saying he was injured and was going back to Burgundy to regain his health. Whatever has happened, Normandy was in English control, and it was up to Joan to stop English morale from rising further. It would be difficult to take Aquitaine since they had few mercenaries to help them, and Aquitaine was an English land. As a result, Joan felt the stress upon her shoulders appear once again. Still, she felt that she was prepared for orders.

**

With a searing headache pounding through him, Philippe le Bon awoke in his missed bed. At home. He recognized that he was back in his beloved Burgundy. Philippe let out a long soft sigh, feeling a huge weight lift off his chest. Now all he wanted to do was relax, forgetting the pain of the headache, and ignoring what the King had done to him. The first blow to the head knocked him out cold and he couldn't remember where else he was injured, but by the way his body felt, it was obvious that other blows were inflicted.

"Thank ze Lord you are awake," he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

"Marie," he whispered, throat dry, "How did I get here?"

"We carried you here," her soft face smiling.

" 'We'?"

"A mercenary and his band went along with me and you were carried in cart back here to Burgundy."

"Where are ze men?"

"Zey remain at Odon to protect it until you are well," she answered resolutely.

Le Bon sighed, "Good." He brought a hand up to touch the side of his bandaged head, most of the white bandages covering his right eye.

Marie asked softly, "Why? Why would ze King do such a thing?"

Her master exhaled softly, in moderate remorse. "Madness," came his blunt reply. "I have noticed that his sanity has been slipping and it seems he has become prone to barbarous outbursts. It seems, in his advanced age, that zis war has been eating away at his mind. His paranoia has become too great, for even himself to control."

Marie just stood staring at her lord with concern etched on her face. It seemed that le Bon accepted his fate at the King's cruel hands. She couldn't believe it. Her stomach churned in silent anger at seeing this man, who gave up everything for his country and King, become a beating dummy for the King's mad whims.

"You need rest. I will leave you to sleep," Marie turned, but stopped. "Lord Philippe, I…" she stopped, unsure of how to tell him her news.

Philippe turned his head in curiosity, his exposed eye looking up at her, "What is it, Marie?"

She shook her head, "Nothing, my lord." She left without another word.

Philippe spent the next few days resting and regaining his health. He felt at ease now that he was home, almost as if the war was over. He managed to get on his feet, walking, with Marie's help, but too much activity left his body numb and exhausted.

A loud thundering roll awoke him one night and he heard the voices of the Burgundian forces shout to protect the fortress walls. The shouts increased tenfold as he heard fighting and the whiney of horses.

A knock came at his door. "What's going on?" he called. A soldier entered, "My Lord! Soldiers are storming the castle."

"What!" Philipe gasped, "Why would ze English—"

"It is not ze English, my lord," the soldier said in a low tone.

"What is going on?" le Bon said aloud as he pulled on some clothes, and finding his sword, not bothering with armor. He ran down to the Grand Hall finding the castle's defense captains preparing for this unknown army.

"Lord le Bon!" one of the captains gasped in surprise.

"I am fine. Prepare yourselves in case they break throught!"

As he gave the order, a loud thumping came from the hall doors. The soldiers steadied their feet and raised their shields. The doors burst open, giving way to a slew of golden soldiers charging through. They were greatly outnumbered and the enemy easily overcame them. The defense soldiers were taken down by the initial confusion.

_'The King is attacking us?'_ le Bon could only watch as his King's men slaughtered his defense. He snapped back to reality when a knight came after him, brandishing his sword. Stunned, le Bon raised his sword to block the attack, but the enemy pushed him into a pillar. He felt a painful snap in his newly mended ribs. Philippe blocked his enemy's sword as the brute brought it down. After a brief struggle, the soldier kneed Philippe in the gut. Weakened, Philippe could not block the blow to the neck the soldier gave him with the butt of his sword. Philippe dropped to the ground, releasing the sword from his grasp, no way to defend once more. The golden soldier lunged forward and Philippe rolled out of the way. A shout pierced through the hall and more soldiers flooded in from the smaller entrances. But these soldiers were black and red, not gold.

Philippe's enemy, confused did not see the old gray-haired mercenary come at him from behind. The soldier's head was smashed in with his mace, pieces of metal from the helmet flying. The mercenary started jumping in excitement, "Whoo! That felt good!"

"Lord le Bon!" Philippe heard his name called amongst the fighting. A short young English commander, with long feathered brown hair came rushing towards him, "Are you alright?"

Philippe gaped, speechless. He never would have thought to see an English commander asking about his health. It took him a while to register what happened. The commander turned to a dark-skinned assassin woman, "Iamarl, get Lord le Bon out of here. We'll take care of the rest."

The assassin nodded, bending down and grabbing a hold of Le Bon's arm. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

Iamarl helped him up, "We have to get out of here. Quick."

"But, my men…Burgundy"

"We'll handle it," she said sharply as she supported part of his weight.

**

From the entrance of the Burgundian city, a small golden regiment stood, a young blond gentleman sat on a horse in front of them. A stocky crossbowman from the orient approached the leader, "Lord de Richemont, the fortress walls have been set to flames."

Arthur de Richemont did not answer; rather he stared off in the distance, troubled.

"My lord, is something wrong?"

De Richemont glanced down as his follower, "It troubles me You Ji, what has the Duke of Burgundy done to vex the King? Destroying his castle seems pointless."

"Lord de Richemont," You Ji reassured, "the King trusts you to do anything for and country."

"For King?"

A/N: "Holy shit what just happened?" is probably what you guys are all thinking right now. I'm telling you, weird stuff happens to these people. As mentioned before the French King is craaaazy. I managed to put de Richemont in here, even for a minor moment. I just felt like I had to even though he's really a minor character in the game.

The next chapter will be mostly along the le Bon/Marie part of the story. Joan will make an appearance. I had to continue the le Bon sub plot since I had writer's block with the main plot. Don't worry, we'll get to Edward and Joan eventually.


	17. Part 17

Part 17

Iamarl and le Bon stopped on a grassy cliff overlooking the flaming Burgundian city. Iamarl draped a wool blanket over the Duke as he stared at the city, expression blank but screams pounding in his ears. Iamarl kept watch over the Duke until Henry Percy returned, but Philippe le Bon did not move. As the flames died and the entrance to the city was left in smoke, Henry Percy arrived.

Le Bon heard the assassin speaking to the short commander but he could not hear the specifics of their conversation. Finally the commander named Henry Percy stood beside le Bon, "We drove the French away. The rest of the city-and Burgundy-is safe."

Le Bon did not respond but Percy continued, "His Majesty wishes to speak with you, Duke of Burgundy." Philippe stood quietly. He had not choice but to obey. Not that he cared. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He was betrayed by his own King, growing madder by the day probably, and who he thought was his enemy rescued him from certain destruction.

Philippe was led to English territory where he was to meet the King of England. What would the King of England possibly want with him? Henry Percy and Iamarl escorted him to the hall where the King of England sat. Philippe swallowed. He had faced the Prince of England in battle before and never won. The Prince's majestic presence left off a powerful aura. Now Philippe realized that it had to run in the family. He froze in awe over the English King, his magnificent armor and straight imposing stature a marvel to look at.

Henry Percy tugged Philippe le Bon's sleeve, motioning for him to bow. Philippe obeyed and fell to his knees, the same way he used to bow to the King of France.

The King's booming voice echoed through the hall, "You are Philippe of Burgundy, are you not?"

Philippe paused, eyes on the ground, taking in a shuddering breath, "I am…sir."

"My, my, then you are in trouble, aren't you. Imagine my surprise to hear that a French force completely bypassed several English bases and instead was heading to Burgundy, an area that has no standing in this war. What have you done to warrant such actions by your own King?"

"I do not know, sir," le Bon answered stoically. The King regarded him with curious eyes. He tilted his head, examining the Duke's bandaged head. "What were those injuries from, Philippe le Bon?"

Philippe shuddered and decided, against his better nature, to lie, "Just a mishap from a battle."

The King's eyes narrowed, detecting the lie, "Is that so? Henry Percy!"

Percy scrambled forward, "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You were at Cherbourg, were you not?"

"I was, Your Majesty."

"You fought against the forces of our friend here, am I correct?"

"You are correct, Your Majesty."

"Was he injured to this extent at any time in the battle?"

"Not to my knowledge, my lord."

"Thank You," the King dismissed Henry Percy with a wave of his hand and stared down at the French Duke. "Duke le Bon, tell me who put in such a condition."

Le Bon paused, acid forming in his throat. He saw that there was no way of avoiding the question, so he answered truthfully, "The King of France."

The court around the King murmured in shock. This only served to unnerve le Bon even further. The King cleared his throat and the whispers dissipated in a silent command. This power of command the King of England held in his court, le Bon saw, was astounding. The French King allowed his subjects and Dukes to twittle away with unimportant topics and nothingness. That was not to say that the French King held no control in his court, he simply let his court get away with anything and do as they pleased unless the King saw fit to intervene.

"For the sake of patience, I will get to the point," the King of England said sternly, "We have saved your land from certain destruction-by your own King no less- I am willing to make a deal."

The acid made its way to Philippe's tongue and the bitter taste was an uncomfortable reminder that he feared what this King would ask him.

"We will aid the defense of your homeland in exchange for your services," the King offered vaguely.

"What kind of services?"

"You will relinquish Flanders to us," the King answered. Le Bon exhaled, there was no such thing as a free lunch. "We will be willing to have you remain the Governor of Flanders, if you cooperate. What do you say?"

What choice did he have? The King of France had called for his destruction and if he refused, Burgundy would most assuredly be destroyed by the English, if not the French army. The more he bitterly thought of the betrayal by the French King the angrier he became. It was one thing to punish him for failure, but to destroy his innocent homeland was unforgivable. No, Philippe le Bon would not serve an unstable King who would set out to kill his own people at whim. He would rather make a deal with the devil.

His eyes met the King's, "I will do all that you wish me to do, I just ask that you save my people."

**

Joan waited inside the French fortress, listening to the battle outside the walls. She hated not being able to help her comrades, but she was ordered to stay until La Hire returned. She began shifting in her saddle, wriggling her hips in impatience. Her men stared at her in curiosity, noting the impatience she exhibited. In all reality, they felt the same way.

La Hire stumbled through the entrance, de Rais behind him. "Lord de Rais," Joan called in shock. "You're supposed to be at the front line."

De Rais' face looked paler than usual and his posture was stiff as he was given a large shock. "I was pushed back."

"There have been a change of plans, Maid," La Hire came up to her horse, "You are to move your forces to the east and begin your attack from there."

"Why?"

La Hire glanced at the shuddering form of de Rais. La Hire cleared his throat, "Prince Edward is on the front line. This is for your safety that you move your forces…"

Conflicting emotions swirled around her head. She was confused on what to feel or what emotions were fighting for dominance. More or less the shock of hearing about the Prince was what made her freeze to the spot.

"Maid?" She snapped out of her daze finding La Hire staring up at her. "This is for your safety. The Prince…he's relentless. Nothing is going to stop him at this point and we can't risk loosing you."

"My safety? What about the rest of the men?"

De Rais calmed himself enough to respond, "In order to complete a successful attack you will go to the east."

His tone was sharp but behind it was a shred of genuine concern for her welfare. Joan nodded in submission and La Hire let out a sigh of relief, "We will escort you to the road, but we cannot go beyond that point. The road should be safe."

La Hire and de Rais flanked Joan as she led her unit to the dirt road that cut outside the battlefield and led to the east French fortress. They stopped, "We cannot go any further, but you must be on your way. Please keep safe."

She bid them farewell and trotted along the road, not looking back.

A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but this was a good place to stop. I aplogise for my lack of updates. I have been working on another fanfiction which is actually posted on here. The next chapter will be longer, I assure you. Read and Review!!


	18. Part 18

Warning: This chapter is contains some bad lemons. Don't read if you don't like.

Part 18

Inside the quiet, desolate quarters of Philippe le Bon, the Duke sat at his desk staring outside his window. He just returned to Flanders and handed the region over to the English. Most of the people jumped for joy at the news. The merchants were now free.

Yet tears watered his eyes. He had betrayed the trust of so many of his friends. For that reason he kept his distance from his subordinates and told them to remain in Burgundy. His only subordinate now was Henry Percy. Hotspur was willing yet impassive about being placed under le Bon's jurisdiction. The King of England put Percy in such a position to keep Flanders safe and to keep an eye on the Count of Flanders. In spite of his company, le Bon felt incredibly lonely.

A knock came to his door, "Lord le Bon. You have a visitor."

"Who?"

There came no answer but the door opened anyway. He looked to the side, gaze on Marie's form. Quickly he looked away and said in a sharp tone, "What are you doing here? I thought you were ordered to remain in Burgundy."

"I was, but my services were no longer needed since ze English captured most of ze bases blocking Burgundy. It is well protected now." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. She most likely felt hurt that Philippe betrayed France.

"So you disobeyed my orders!" he snapped still not looking at her, his gaze out the window.

"I had to see you…" Marie softly responded.

Le Bon scoffed, "And now you have. Is zere something else you want? If not, zen leave me be."

Marie was silent. She could feel the self-loathing and shame in his uncharacteristically angry tone. She knew him too well. His refusal to look at her showed Marie that her lord believed he betrayed her as well. She didn't come for an explanation; she already knew why he did such a thing.

Philippe gave a start when he felt small arms wrap around his waist, and a small warm body press against his back. He felt a tightening in his breast, and his throat constricted with the onset of tears.

"I don't want to leave you," his assistant whispered into the middle of his back. He shuddered hearing her soft cracked tone.

"Marie…" he whispered, choking back tears, unwilling to show weakness. Yet he gave in, and turned to face her and held her close, not wanting to let her go. "Why would you stay, when I betrayed you and your trust?"

"No, you didn't," she mumbled in his tunic. Marie drew back to gaze into his warm pale blue eyes, "I agreed to be by your side and to fight for you, no matter what. This decision of yours is yours, and I trust your judgment and I trust in you."

He couldn't speak. He simply did not know what to say. Responding though was inappropriate and would degrade the worth of Marie's words. Instead he pulled her tighter to him bending down, resting his chin on the top of her head. She sighed in content, releasing tears.

"My lord," she whispered, "I have to tell you something that I ashamedly did not have the courage to do until now. But it is your right to know…"

Le Bon pulled back as she leaned up and hesitantly confessed in his ear, "Lord Philippe…I…I am with child. With your child."

He froze. '_Did she say what I think she said?'_ A myriad of emotions and responses ran through his head, but unconsciously he pulled his head back to look into her eyes. She was serious…whatever the news was.

"What?" he whispered softly in disbelief.

"I'm pregnant with your child, my lord," she said, slowly. Her brow creased in concern, her eyes staring up at him in fear and in anticipation.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, sensing her fear.

Marie looked down, "I was afraid that you would reject me. Punish me for foolishness."

Surprisingly, Philippe chuckled, "My dear, if you are a fool than I must be the King of Fools, and there is no reason to reject you. You were always loyal to me. Lord in Heaven, Marie, I am happy that it is you who would carry my child. I would trust no one else."

He lifted her chin up, seeing her eyes filed with unshed tears. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. A sigh escaped her lips, her eyes fluttering shut.

"I once told you that I cannot defend my people alone," Philippe whispered, a hair's width away from her lips. "I sought your aid and you gave it. Now, you are giving me a most precious gift. Why would I lose my faith in you?"

Coming in closer, he gently covered her mouth with his, missing such sweet contact that he had not had with this woman for months. He gently ran his hands up her arms to rest on her shoulders, causing her to shiver in delight.

_'You're going to have to trust him'_

That thrice accursed mercenary's words drifted in her head. Dammit! He was right. Why would she ever think that Philippe would deny her and their child? He was too kind and too noble to do that.

He deftly removed her head scarf, letting her dark brown hair cascade over her shoulders. He stroked the back of her hair as his mouth left her lips, dragging along her jaw to her ear. "I just ask that you don't reject me," he whispered softly, before nipping at her earlobe.

"Oh, don't worry. I won't," she said in shuddering gasp. His hands began to move back, unclasping her thin armor.

It was a struggle, through, removing her armor. She regretted ever putting it on, but she had no way of knowing that things would escalate to this. She was thankful that her lord was not wearing any of his bulky armor. With a loud clatter, her armor was thrown to the floor, making the progress a lot easier. Marie pulled Philippe down by the dip in his collar, giving him a hungry opened mouthed kiss, his tongue delving into her hot mouth as she began unbuttoning his tunic.

With deft fingers he subtly began to untie the laces of her over shirt. She pushed his tunic down his shoulders and her lips left his to leave a trail of hot, passionate kisses along his collarbone. Her lips pulled up into a light smile when she felt him shudder and moan. To entice him further, she ground her body into the erection poking at her belly. He hissed in response. "Oh, God," he moaned.

His vocalization aroused her to no end and hastily she began to help Philippe remove her own clothing. Once her clothing was littered on the floor, she pulled his shirt free from his trousers and began undoing his belt. He grunted as she accidentally brushed his arousal.

Sweet bells of Notre Dame! He couldn't hold back anymore. Every light touch to his member caused more blood to pump there, making his erection more painful as it strained against the wool fabric of his trousers.

He lifted her smaller body and easily carried her to his bed, laying her down gently on the top of the comfortable bed covers. She sighed in content as she felt the softness of the bed sheets against her bare back.

Philippe kicked off his boots and shrugged the rest of his shirt off. He laid his body over hers, delighting in the way her nimble fingers played with the thin blond hairs on his chest. Her hands continued to roam his body as he kissed a hot trail from the tip of her breast to her earlobe. He ran his tongue along her ear and she heaved in passion, "My lord, please! I beseech you. I want you inside of me."

Feeling the pain of his own arousal, he was not going to deny her. He slid his trousers off, sighing in relief as his erection sprang free from its confines. He leaned over her, propping himself up on his forearms. He craned his head down to hungrily claim her mouth, his tongue lashing as violently as his passion.

Marie reached down and grasped at his member. She was stunned at how hot it was. It practically burned her palm. Slowly she guided it to her entrance. With one thrust of his hips he entered her, giving a shuddering groan to match her whimper. She was shocked at how sensitive her entrance was but knew it was probably one of the many changes a woman goes through during pregnancy. She ran her hands down Philippe's thick, muscular back finding the perspiration she felt on him completely arousing. She nudged her hips, urging him to move within her. He willing obeyed her silent request. He pumped into her, each thrust showing less and less control he had. Philippe reached down between them, running his thumb over her aching clit. Her juices splashed onto his thighs as she came.

"Oh Lord!" he cried, feeling her walls clamping down on him before his seed shot from him into her.

Both breathing heavily, Philippe mustered all what was left of his strength to keep from collapsing on top of her. He rolled to the side dragging her with him, clutching her to his chest. Both of their bodies were shining with perspiration, hair clinging to their faces.

After catching his breath, Philippe turned to his lover, running a hand on her still flat stomach. "Thank you, Marie. For everything."

She smiled back at him sleepily, drawing the covers over them both before drifting off to sleep.

****

On the dirt path, Joan was trotting further and further away from the battlefield, the noises dying down, so she could only hear the foot trots of their horses. The sky had clouded over but she could barely spot the Eastern fortress behind the trees ahead. In an instant, no one saw them appear, but a group of hooded and cowled men stood in the middle of the road ahead. They looked Middle Eastern rather than monks that Joan would've thought. The hooded man in the middle held a long-handled scythe, the blade an obsidian color. Joan halted her men. A knight at her side called to them, "What is your purpose?"

The middle man raised his head, yellow eyes glinting through the shadow cast over his eyes. _Black Scythe_, Joan realized, but it was too little too late. The men at his side disappeared in a flash. Her stood stunned and did not notice the obscure men reappear at each of their sides, leaping on them and thrusting their knives into their throats. Panicked, Joan faced the leader. Black Scythe sprinted towards her and took a mighty leap, like a cat pouncing on its prey and tackled her to the ground. Her vision went black.

A/N: Sorry for the incredibaly late update. I have been working on another fanfiction and work in general has skrewed me over. The next few chapters will return to the main plot (Yay!) And the return of...Edward? Please review.


	19. Part 19

Disclaimer: Belongs to KOEI and history.

Warning: Take heed of this before I receive complaints. There WILL be material in this chapter that could be construed as offensive depending on your world view and beliefs. Please note that I do not do this maliciously or to debunk anything. It is JUST a part of the FICTIONAL story. There you go...  
If I receive any death threats or flames regarding the likely hood of that particular content I will reply back with fangs bared. I don't mean to turn you guys off with that threat. I'm just preparing for the inevitable future.

Part 19

A tall, looming figure in black armor stood alone in the middle of a field of bodies. He clutched his bloodied lance tightly, still ready in case anyone had the stupidity to attack him.

"Your Highness."

The black armored warrior turned, lance at the ready. Upon seeing Chandos and two mercenaries he lowered his guard.

"The French have been pushed back. We should head back to Bordeaux," Chandos paused, choking back words as he noticed blood spatter all over Prince Edward's armor and face. He looked feral and menacing, unlike Chandos had ever seen him before.

"Ah, that's sorta creepy," the older mercenary muttered seeing the blood on his face. The other mercenary didn't move but whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Off in the distance, a French knight regained consciousness and started groaning. The Prince turned towards him. Unfortunately for the French man, he opened his eyes finding the black and bloody Prince standing over him. He yelped trying to squirm away from the young Prince. Once he felt he was a sufficient distance away he grabbed a fallen sword and turned. The Prince stood, still watching as the knight charged at him with a sword.

"Your Highness! Look out!"

The knight tried to slice at the Prince, but he caught the knight by the wrist and pushed the him down, applying pressure on the side of the knight's knee with his foot.

The knight cried in pain and released the sword. The Prince kept his foot on the side of the knight's leg, prepared to get answers by applying more pressure.

"Where are your other forces?"

"Fuck you, English demon!" the knight spat. Frowning, the Prince applied more pressure on the leg, hearing a crackling noise along with the screams.

"I know there is supposed to be at least one other force out there. If you want to see the light of tomorrow or being able to walk again, you will answer me and give me the truth," the Prince applied a little more pressure.

"Grah! I don't know what you are talking about! Lords de Rais and La Hire were pushed back. That's all I know."

Prince Edward's frown deepened. He slammed his foot down and Chandos and the mercenaries grimaced a sickening snap of bone breaking. The knight cried in horror as white bone stuck out of his flesh.

"Will you tell me now?"

Choking back vomit, the knight relented, "They sent a force to the east, but no report came if they arrived or not. I swear as God as my witness, that is to the extent I know."

The Prince was satisfied and relented, leaving the knight weeping in agony. Prince Edward passed Chandos muttering, "Now to find my horse."

Fredrico and his son looked at each other before watching the Prince stalk away. The older man broke the silence, "Yeahhh…still creepy."

* * *

Cold and groggy, Joan awoke in a damp cell, her armor stripped from her and she was only wearing a brown wool gown. She barely remembered what happened. Before she could gauge what Black Scythe did, Joan heard footsteps come closer to her cell. The clanging of bars as her cell was opened rang in her ears. Two men entered the cell, one wearing heavy armor, the other a thinner man with a wide hat. Black Scythe entered between the two, "You have been summoned."

He motioned for her to stand, and she tried, her knees weak. Too weak, and they collapsed from under her. The large knight and Black Scythe caught her and helped her up, leading her out of the cell by the arms.

The three men led her through the castle, only coming to halt at a wooden door. They opened it and dragged her in. The room was dimly lit with only a few candles. It was a large room with very little furnishings. In the center was a tall man, his back to her staring out the window, watching the rain pour down the glass. His long black hair reaching down to his shoulder blades blended in with his dark tunic that was laced with gold trim.

The large knight led her to the middle and instructed her to fall on her knees.

"Your Highness," the man in the hat spoke, "Here is the prisoner."

"Thank you," his voice sounded stern. Joan barely recognized the voice or the man.

"You are the Maid of Orleans, are you not?" the voice sent shivers up his spine, but she answered, "Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

"In Bordeaux, I presume."

"We found you heading towards an eastern fortress, away from the main force. Why were you sent there?"

"I was sent to attack from the side, and…for my safety…from you."

The figure spoke softly, almost to himself, "From me…"

He let out a dark chuckle as he turned revealing his face to Joan. She already knew who he was, but he seemed different from the weakened young man chained to her chamber less than a month earlier. Prince Edward obviously regained some of the weight he lost during his captivity, but his eyes were deeply shadowed from lack of sleep.

Physically, the Prince looked dashing, a silver circlet on the crown of his head marking his princely status, a black, finely trimmed beard lining his jaw and upper lip.

However, life or vibrancy that makes one human was gone. Mentally and emotionally he was a wreck.

"They are worried about protecting you from me."

Joan knew why he found such a statement humorous. After what she had done to him, she was more of a threat. Tears pricked her eyelids as the memory of a pitiable version of Prince Edward lying under her, shuddering, face contorted in fear, as she molested him.

"What do you think the other units will do to get you back?" he asked. Her answer was painful for her to say, "They most likely will try to rescue me as soon as they are able."

Edward's allies did not make any notable attempt to rescue him, at least to her knowledge.

"Consider yourself lucky," he spat, "However we have pushed your aiding forces back enough that they will not be able to arrive here for quite sometime." His eyes were cold, his intentions were unclear, and so she did not respond.

He turned his back on her, growling, "Take her away."

The large soldier approached her and knelt and took hold of her shoulder with surprising gentleness.

"Come on, let's go," he said softly. He helped her up and, with Black Scythe, walked her out.

They led her through the castle while having a conversation about Prince Edward.

"Good god, can you explain again to me what's happened to him?" the large knight asked the cloaked warrior at his side.

"It is difficult to say, but I fear he may be going mad."

"How long do you think it will last?"

Black Scythe shrugged and it was then that Joan realized that they were not leading her back to her cell. They were in a more comfortable part of the castle, judging by the stained glass windows and tapestries. They ascended a staircase and through a hall and opening a door.

The warriors led her inside the comfortable room, warmed by a fireplace. They dragged her to the bed and tied her hands to one of the posts of the four-post bed and left, locking the door behind them.

Joan waited with bated breath for several minutes, possibly and hour, her heart in her throat. She had no idea what was going to happen, finding it awfully confusing that she be imprisoned in a comfortable room.

The door opened and the Prince, his face stern, entered shutting the door behind him. His jaw was set in silent anger and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Comfortable, isn't it?" he said with bitterness.

She wanted to weep, but she had no right to. She broke laws of God and mostly broke him. Joan's breathing became labored.

"Why did you do such a thing?" he said vaguely his anger still there, prevalent, even as he looked to be restraining it. It seemed to be ready to spill and his angry dark presence seemed to be filling the room like a swimming demon.

Joan looked away in shame and fear.

"DON'T!" he roared, "Don't you dare turn your head away from me!"

Immediately Joan's eyes flicked back to the man.

"Look at me!" he snarled, roughly bringing his hands to his chest. "See the man you imprisoned. Look at what's left of me. The shell of what I had been. I used to inspire pride in my countrymen and now all they see is something to fear."

His face was now twisted in anguish, as if he were begging to weep but couldn't. He approached her, taking a jeweled dagger from his belt.

"Ever since that day, I get weaker and weaker. I feel my life drain, my mind slipping into madness. I can't eat, I can't sleep, all because of you and your games you play for your king."

He was at the bed, looming over her, brandishing the dagger in a harsh grip. Joan gasped and shrank away, his shadow covering her in darkness.

"And so you leave me no choice…"

Closing her eyes, she braced her self for something…anything. Instead, she felt the tight strain in her wrists relax. The Prince's warm, overbearing presence no longer seemed to flood her. She peaked open one eye and found him standing back, the hand holding the dagger relaxed. The tied around Joan's wrists were cut, her hands free from the bedpost.

The Prince turned his back and opened the door to the bedroom, "I free you. Whatever action I do will not bend away the demons of my dreams and it will only cause a cyclical reaction. There is no escape for me."

Joan remained on the bed, staring at this wretched man of royal blood. His eyes met hers, red all over and watery.

"Before you go," Prince Edward said in a low voice, that very voice shaking, "I ask one favor of you."

He tossed the dagger to the floor and opened his black tunic, bearing his chest. Joan nearly gasped. In the middle of his chest was the blackened and silver remnant of his pendant imbedded in his chest, darkened veins spreading out from it like rays of a black sun.

"I need you to kill me, please."

She blinked at his plea. He sounded desperate, his chest rising and falling.

"I can't take this anymore. I want you to kill me."

Joan was speechless, her mouth open. Yet, by all appearances, Prince Edward was dead serious. What had this poor man was feeling to want to end his life in such a way. And she was the root of that problem. Guilt was a sickening feeling, but it was necessary for Joan to feel it. It made her realize that more people suffered than just the peasants of the French countryside. The plagues of this war poisoned this young Prince's mind and he was at the very end.

Easing out of the bed, Joan bent down to pick up the dagger, weighing it in her hand. She held it out and approached the Prince offering himself up to her for her to slaughter.

She should do it. Killing him would probably increase the chance of finding peace in this land all the while granting long awaited reprieve.

She pressed the tip over the Prince's heart, but she hesitated. Edward instead grabbed her wrist forced her to press hard so the tip of the knife pieced the strong flesh and muscle of his chest.

She yelped and wrenched her hand away, not wanting to pierce any further. The dagger flew across the room and landed with a clatter.

Tears were running down her cheeks now, barely standing the look of confusion on Prince Edward's face.

Her emotions must have gotten the best of her, and so she did the only thing that came to mind.

She kissed him.

It was the only thing to stop him from doing anything bold or rash. To tell him that she understood his pain.

Joan dared to pull back, afraid that he might yell at her or worse. He looked…stunned and he never looked so vulnerable, not even when he exposed himself for death.

Joan still cupped his face, biting her lip.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry. I have no right to apologize," Joan whispered her voice shaking.

"Why do you do this? All that you have been to me is nothing short of confusing," he said, "How do I know to trust you in my lair?"

"You don't. I am your enemy…as you are mine. But in here were are but people, are we not?"

The Prince shook his head, "This is not fair, madam."

"It is not. You are to throw me in prison."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I said you could be free and I intend to keep my word as a gentleman."

When he lowered his gaze, she took that as a sign to leave. Lowering her head she sidestepped him, dreading to go. There were so many unanswered questions and she felt that running away would just be cowardice in avoiding what she had done.

As she bypassed him, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. He brought her to him and kissed her back, this time with ferocity, all that tension released.

He handled her with roughness but with care at the same time, especially as his embrace turned gentle and understanding.

He broke away, face still close to hers, "What are you? Are you a saint?"

He kissed her again pushing her back towards the bed, "Or are you a servant of the French crown?"

He kissed her again, pushing her on the bed. His lips left hers and he continued to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids, her forehead. For her it was a wonderful feeling despite who was doing this to her. The Prince was still fragile, she could tell that by the hesitancy in his touches and his kisses. There was nothing to fear from him at the moment. Joan just wanted to keep close to him, to make sure he would still go on with his promising future as an idol to his kingdom.

"I'm just a French peasant girl from the country. Underneath all my armor and glory that is all that I am," she whispered in his ear, trying to ignore the tight feeling in her belly as his breath washed over her neck.

She felt more than heard him chuckle in response, "That is more than I am. Underneath my armor and glory is just a name. I'm nothing really, even with this…"

He removed the circlet from his crown and tossed it away, gazing down on her. Edward's face didn't show any burning lust, or fleeting love. It was relief. As if the weight of her being there and daring to face him was something to relieve him of his self torment.

Indeed she was bare now. Not physically but her power over him was gone with her armor and rank. Lying with the Prince of England was something now that seemed to rid of her guilt, and she would do it to save both their souls.

Edward, too, seemed to think the same thing. It was a moral sin and political suicide what they were doing. Edward already had nothing to lose and Joan…

What she was doing now had no bearing on how she felt about saving people who suffered. She still had a strong desire to work for that and she had to start with the man lying over her, gently caressing her.

"If you be a saint or angel," he whispered into her collarbone, "then I beg thee to let me see the warmth and light of heaven on this very dreadful day."

Fidgeting, Joan refrained from correcting him, to tell him once again that she was no saint, but if he desired to go to somewhere better with her, then she would gladly go.

As the moments melted together, their clothing was removed. Joan was shy, as was he, despite having seen each other completely bare previously.

He worked through her shyness, by shielding her from the heavens with his body. Edward's body was warm, not cold and clammy like when he was imprisoned. Joan's own body flushed with heat, even as he kissed her gently.

Edward had been raised in a life of war and gallantry; he had no time or notion of romantic love or anything of the sort. His brother, John of Lancaster, spent most of his days courting ladies, kissing them, singing sonnets to them, while he was to go to the fields to train and drill with the troops and attend political meetings. So being in a situation such as this, he felt was purely instinctual rather than strategically.

The girl under him had no thought of romance or passion; she was that stagnant. But she had compassion, and she allowed herself, just this once, to no longer be Joan from the city of Arc, the miracle girl from Orleans, fellow soldier, and servant of the French king. She was just a woman. A woman who was letting this dashing young man that was the token of many young girl's dreams, lick his way down her throat to her modest breasts.

She felt the air leave her lungs in a delicate sigh, as white-hot joy filled her belly and chest. He was gentle, and yet everything became a blur of sensation for her. Edward was groaning in her ear. A delightful sound that sent shivers down her spine. He pressed himself to her, his aching need against her most sacred of places.

She almost did this before to him, but…

He pulled away, brushing her locks, staring down at her modest form with passion-fogged eyes. Edward's eyes no longer seemed red, but were soft and solid, a passion dark.

They didn't say anything to each other, even as Joan pulled her back to him. She kissed him gently. A sigh was his response. There was an unspoken truce between them and she prepared herself for pain as he surged forward inside her.

He breathed out when she clawed at his arms, and she whimpered, biting her lip harshly.

"My apologies, maiden," he said throatily, stopping. He regarded her with care as if she really were his lover. He brushed his knuckle against her jaw and waited. Edward was doing his best to make this whole situation less awkward, but it certainly didn't help that he had very little idea what he was doing and, judging by the confused and uncomfortable look on Joan's face, she didn't either.

Slowly, he pushed further in, letting her squeeze against him as tightly as possible. The friction was incredible despite the extra care he took with her.

Once she had adjusted her body to meld with him a little better, she tucked her head in his neck, letting her eyes drift close, as if she thought this was the end of this tryst.

Edward didn't stop. Instead he took a deep breath and moved within her.

Joan let out a soft cry at the jerky movements he was creating. The young man had to swallow his pride, as he knew his method was amateur and sporadic. Despite the pleasure he was feeling, he also had the dreaded feeling of incompetence.

However, once she relaxed fully and moaned, bright warmth spread through his chest. With the barest of smiles he kissed her on the neck began to move with more assurance.

The young woman from France had never felt anything like what she was experiencing at this moment. The closest thing she could think of was the exhilaration of being victorious at the Battle of Orleans. It left her with a similar feeling. Warmth all over, joy coursing white hot through her extremities, heaven's light piercing her chest.

Edward could have laughed in relief at the feeling that what they were doing was good rather than dirty or sinful. He pushed himself a little faster, his breath quickly coming short. Whatever this was; whatever they were doing it wasn't going to last long, but that didn't mean they weren't going to enjoy it.

Edward hissed and quickly pulled away as heaven gripped his very body and a white light shocked his vision. He gave a low cry and spilled himself over her legs.

Joan came down from her high when she heard him cry, trying to fill her lungs with air. She was twitching and sweating, not feeling particularly clean after the young man released himself. Still, she relinquished her harsh grip on his strong arms, and caressed the small innocuous welts she accidently inflicted upon his skin.

Issuing a whispered exclamation to God, Edward lowered himself beside her, smiling softly.

"I don't know where to apologize," he said to her reaching for her burlap dress and placing it over her to keep her modesty. The corner of Joan's mouth quirked at his behavior. English he may be, but Prince Edward was a true gentleman through and through.

"Please do not," she replied, fully aware of her care for this man, "I am only concerned about our ability to help our causes now."

Edward groaned, burying his face in the bed sheets, "Let us not talk about that right now, please, madam. We are already in serious trouble."

"Then what should we do?"

"We rest for the night."

* * *

A/N: Wow...just wow. Its been years since I updated and I am truly truly sorry to all of those who supported me and this story. I shouldn't have turned my back on my first fic. This was fun to write and going back to it has rekindled something. I would like to thank KOEI for confirming that Joan of Arc will be featured in Warriors Orochi 3. It helped inspire me to pick this back up.

I hope you all like this chapter and I will do my best to continue to finish this up. Thank you all.


	20. Part 20

Part 20

Inside the tavern at Normandy the mercenaries gathered for drinks as usual after returning from Il-de-France. Most were exhausted and went to their beds for the night, the usual crowd however was sitting casually by a table, drinking, and discussing the previous skirmish.

Georges, who was already tipsy and red-faced slammed his drink down on the table, interrupting the conversation between Marc and Magnus.  
"Dammit! I knew teaching that sheep headed kid anything about warfare was just asking for a disaster."

Karen rolled her eyes, "What is it now?"

"That boy…he…God! He's useless. Nearly destroyed half my men trying to save his sorry ass from a bunch of mace wielding knights. The kid may know some basics…but has no position on the field."

"Georges…" the archer's brother calmly said.

"Don't Georges me! Everyone here knows it. If he wants to achieve something he cannot do so with a blade in hand and blood on his clothes."

They all turned when they heard the sound of the loud scrapping of a chair. A blonde head rushed into the back where the rooms were.

"Will!" Adrien called slamming his goblet down and hopping off the table, "Dammit Georges!"

The man started to make his way towards the back hearing Georges call back, "'E needs to know the truth."

Adrien spun around, "When I get back, I'm going to rip your brain out through your foot!"

Adrien knocked on William's door, his jaw set tight. He was going to give Georges hell after this. If not in this tavern, out in the battlefield at some point.

"Fuck it!" he growled to himself and opened the door gently. William was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together, head bowed, shielding his face in a blond cloudy mass of hair. He was holding a piece of parchment in his hands.

"Will?" Adrien called. The boy lifted his head up and it was obvious he had been called.

"He's right. Even after that training I am useless," William replied his voice heavy.

Adrien sighed and sat down next to the kid, "I don't believe that. I mean you have drive. If you honestly believed yourself that useless then you would've gone home by now."

William shook his head and handed the older man the parchment he was holding. Adrien gave it a read through and his stomach dropped. This poor kid…He was really going to grill Georges afterwards.

"Why didn't you tell us that your father was kidnapped? I'm sure some of these fellas would donate a few of their coin to help you out."

"And have my problems solved by complete strangers and drag more people into this? No! Even if I do appreciate the gesture."

Adrien smiled, "You maybe young, but you have the mindset of a man. Hey, kid, no one's going to be downright successful right away, but the opportunities will raise you up in the ranks…"

William shrugged, "Easy for you to say. I'm not a strong, brawny…Spaniard? Italian? I'm sorry I don't…"

"I'm Italian," Adrien answered in a deadpan tone.

"Really? Because your surname and your father's name seem… Spanish to me."

"I know. It's really a long story. You had the misfortune of meeting my father. You understand."

William's lips tightened as he forced a smile. Adrien chuckled and folded the note, placing it back in William's hand, "You have more at stake than any one of us here. The fact that you have something to lose will make you stronger. Get on the field a few times and I guarantee you all those jitters will disappear, leaving you to concentrate on your strategy and skill."

Adrien put his large hand on William's head and looked the younger man in the eye, "You have nothing to be afraid of."

* * *

Joan awoke in a lush comfortable bed. It wasn't familiar to her…at least not since last night.

She sighed, brow furrowed, feeling a dull pain between her legs. That's right she had lain with a man. It was the most horrid sin a woman could commit. To lay with a man without being his betrothed was just…

What did she have to lose anyway?

Plus the expression of sheer relief on the Prince's face, his pain ebb away, it may have been worth it. During the act, of course, she thought it was well worth it, not knowing how such an act could be considered a sin. It brought about such warmth.

Joan rolled on her back, arm flopping on the other side of the bed. It was empty. Curious she sat up on her elbows, making sure the sheet covered her bare chest.

Not a moment later the door opened.

Prince Edward came in, already dressed. He looked healthier, like a large yoke was off his shoulders. He obviously shaved his well-manicured whiskers as well. When he saw that she was awake, he gave her the barest of smiles.

"I'm glad you could sleep so well, given the circumstances," he said.

She smiled back, "Yes, well…a comfortable bed does help."

"Oh? What about the company?"

Alright, she'll play along, "Well, good sir, you did make for a warm pillow to nestle against."

The Prince laughed. It was rich and deep, coming from deep within him, almost contagious.

He drew closer to the bed and rested his knee upon it, a smile still gracing his lips. He pointed to a large sack by the door of his bedroom.

"I brought your armor up earlier," his eyes met hers and Joan realized the topic was going to become more subdued, "As much as I…sincerely find you captivating and enchanting, I do not think it wise for both of us if you remain here for much longer."

"But what will they say when they find I am no longer in your custody."

"I'll be plain and frank. I'll tell them you escaped, which, hopefully you will."

Joan opened her mouth but stopped. She was worried about this man and how his comrades will think of him. Maybe they will be relieved to see him happier and saner than he was before. She trusted the English enough to give their own Prince the benefit of the doubt, but Joan was quick to realize, even within her own kingdom, that royalty could be complicated and cruel to each other.

"May I ask you something?" she asked.

The Prince nodded.

"What does this make us?"

As she understood Edward shrugged, "I'm not sure. You will not leave your cause for me, correct?"

"That I cannot do. Not for anyone. I'm sorry."

"I understand wholeheartedly," Edward nodded, "As I cannot leave my peoples' cause either. So…this makes us…compassionate enemies."

Compassionate enemies. Joan liked that. She could understand his plight, just as he understood hers. She could live with that.

The Prince turned away, pretending to turn his attention away from Joan as she began getting dressed. Joan found her purple underclothing from the sack and hurriedly tried to dress it upon herself. Yet, large hands wove about her shoulders, helping her fasten her white armor. Her lip curled a little when she realized his hands began to linger in places, like her thigh and back. The Prince was quiet the entire time.

Once everything was set she turned gracefully on her toes to face him. Her large eyes met his warm grey ones.

"Thank you," she whispered, her breath catching.

Edward took her hand, and pressed his lips to the steel place covering the back of it.

"It is I who should thank you," his voice rumbled. He dropped her hand and nodded towards the door, "You should go. Take the path through the kitchens out the servants' entrance. I made sure guards would be scarce along the way. Take the stairs all the way down to the lowest level. The kitchens will be right ahead of you. The cooks will not be up this early. But you must make haste."

"I shall," Joan said without hesitation. She turned and left through the door.

Inside his head Edward prayed she would make it safely out of the fortress.

Meanwhile Joan quickly made her way down the spiral stairs to the very bottom floor. Just as the Prince said, it lead right to the kitchens. Someone already had started the fires. Whoever it was, Joan could hear him or her in the storage room, scrambling for ingredients. She took that opportunity to slip through the servants' entrance.

Without being noticed, she had a clear shot to the forest and she took it.

However, she had no way to realize that a young man up in one of the towers was gazing upon her through a window. He hesitated, but couldn't resist a smirk.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the brief chapter...but it is only to quench the thirst. I feel like I'm nearing the end of this story. Maybe in one or two chapters. We'll see. But I do sense that there will be a lot of stories left untold when I'm through, but that is only so I can complete the main objective of this tale. Please review.


	21. Part 21

Disclaimer: These people belong to history but the likenesses is Koei's

Part 21

In northern Ill-de-France two forces clashed ferociously. Both sides were equally in havoc; no one had a subsequent upper hand, at least not yet. Even though the English now had a commander that knew the ins and outs of French forces, the French, as always, had more soldiers to spare.

The French King was snarling at the fighting from his white mount. His advisors had suggested that he should have dispatched more soldiers up in the north before they were overrun, but the King got cocky. Especially after the devastating news that the Maid of Orleans was captured turned out to be a false alarm.

The English were drawing nearer, fighting harder, like the lion bastards they were. The King of France's eyes were raised to the enemy, and he finally gave the signal for his golden knights to charge.

On a small hill, Philippe le Bon kept his tired eyes on the French royal charging against English infantry and mercenaries. In the moments before being pulled to fight alongside the English, he felt guilt. Indescribable guilt. He had displaced himself and his friends into becoming traitors to the King and becoming an untrustworthy ally to the English government.

How was the phrase? He was between a rock and a hard place.

His soldiers beside him shifted in their saddles, waiting for a call to action.

Philippe had to be moved into action and seeing the traitorous, prideful face of his former lord was enough to wash away the guilt. With a swift motion of his hand, he charged down in the middle to rescue the infantry and to confront France's King.

The King of France swept up the English soldiers with ease, sending them scattered and bleeding in the battlefield. He was convinced that even the famed archers could do nothing in this place. It was hilly, but few places that sniping peasant archers could hold an advantage towards the well-trained and disciplined nobility of the French army.

His thoughts were interrupted when the cavalry to his left was dismounted by a familiar blond man with blue-white eyes. The King's face heated in rage. The traitor was here. Philippe le Bon turned back up the hill to regroup, eyes still on the King.

The King remained still, but he straightened his back, giving Philippe a snarl of distaste as if he were but a piece of mud on his boot.

"Traitor of Burgundy! You dare show your face on this sacred land and in my presence," the King's eye ticked. "I should have known a feeble man like you could not resist the devil's comfort in the English."

"You are a mad king," le Bon replied, his face impassive yet stern, "I a followed a King who was valiant and eager to rule with others in mind. Not the diseased jester I see before me now. You gave me no choice, my lord. You could have beaten me and strung me to the rafters all you wanted. But once you attacked my people, I was given little option. I chose the lesser of two evils, the lesser of two madmen."

The King took the insult and gritted his teeth. Philippe raised his lance in front of him, acknowledging a duel. The King however moved first…

The King of France kick started his horse, leaving the rest of his unit behind. Philippe followed suit. This was a one-on-one charge and the two drew closer, their horses snorting. They lowered their lances, eyes focused.

However the King's pinpoint gaze was interrupted as a spear flew across his vision, barely missing his nose. It startled him and his horse enough, to halt and lose focus. His gaze briefly caught the image of blond boy straightened after he missed the monarch. The taller, older soldier next to him jeered, "Oooooh…so close…"

Before the King of France knew it, blinding impact blasted against his chest as le Bon's lance hit its mark, splintering in several wooden pieces. The King flew off his horse and hit the ground with a thud. He lay on the ground gasping for air as the wind was knocked out of him, his breastplate dented into his chest. He wasn't sure where the time went, but he could hear voices.

"…it was a man-to-man duel. There was no need to interfere…"

"…sorry…Lord le Bon…you have to admit that was a nice shot the kid had…"

Before he knew it, Philippe le Bon's face came into view.

"Bastard…" the King managed. "I would see you rot in the hottest inferno of hell."

"So it shall be then," Philippe replied, "For if defending my people is a sin, I never want to be virtuous."

The King's eyes were wide, flicking in every direction, not focusing on anything. His lips began moving muttering silently. For a brief moment Philippe felt pity for the now deranged King.

"You are unfit to rule," Philippe stated as if he were pointing out a fact, "Do yourself, your soldiers, and your people a favor. Step down."

* * *

Back in Bordeaux, a storm was brewing. Not a literal storm, but two impressive and volatile forces were about to clash. Edward was recovering from his mental and physical disease nicely. And it all was just in time for the English forces to move out to defend Limoges from an attack.

The Prince at the moment was strapping on his military tunic. He glanced up when his father barged in. King Edward III was an impressive man and imposing enough without his armor and normally he was cool and calm. But now, his face was red, teeth grit underneath his beard.

"Tell me boy, that the news I have received is untrue."

"In what way father?" Edward did not stand in acknowledgment of his father's presence.

"The girl from Orleans that was captured," the English King clarified, "where is she?"

Edward tried not to let his face portray anything, but his lips pursed and his jaw clenched.

"Where. Is. She?" The King's tone rumbled like thunder and his presence flooded the room with anger.

Edward did not wish to lie to his father, so he remained silent.

"GONE!" the older man's voice snapped like lightening, "She's gone! Back to her country and to the French army."

The King took a few steps forward and blocked his son in with his imposing presence, making the young man seem like he were just a mere boy.

"They tell me that you…you are the one who let her slip away."

Edward blinked at the double meaning of what he said. Sure he knew what his father meant, but his heart asked the same question, with a different meaning.

"How could you betray us like that?"

'Us'. His father always used that word. Not 'him' but 'us' meaning the people of his kingdom. If no one could respect his father as a man or warrior, he was damned magnificent ruler who understood that he alone was not the column that kept England afloat.

Edward kept thinking of his own selfishness.

"Well!?" the King interrupted his thoughts.

"I never meant it as a betrayal, father," Edward responded breathlessly holding in an unpredictable reaction.

The King drew back, his grey brows rising slightly. His son practically admitted to aiding the prisoner. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Edward stood, his height exceeding his father by a few inches, "What were we going to use her for anyway? Using her as leverage would mean nothing since her own King left her to the wolves at Rouen. Surely you know that."

King Edward backhanded the young man, "You have always been a brilliant and valiant son, but you cannot hide your true motives behind semantics."

Edward recovered without so much as a sniff, but he braced his cheek that had been sliced with his father's lion ring.

"If you no longer wish to take your duties as a servant and warrior of England then hand over your crown," the older man continued.

This time the younger Edward's face flickered into one of slight astonishment.

"Your brother, John of Gaunt, would be thrilled to take your position or Henry…"

Hearing that name, Edward's eyebrows lowered. The younger, brash, red-haired prince had no eye on the crown before, but only he could have caused this much trouble.

"Father, you are wiser than this to be stirred by that brigand…" Edward snapped.

"It is true, but that is besides the point…"

"If you believe me unfit, then take my crown!" he dared to raise his voice to the King of England. "Yet how dare you presume that I would trade the welfare of my kingdom for the wiles of a woman!"

"Greater men have done so for much less!"

The two royals stared at each other, fire and panic in their eyes. In the King's eyes was a small flicker of betrayal and disappointment.

Finally having enough, the King turned with a whirl of his dark cape. Before he left the Prince, he said at the door, "You will not take the field. You will be locked in this room until I have found what I am to do with you."

That foreboding statement was followed by the slam of the door. A click came from the other side and Edward realized he was locked in.

He sat on the bed, withholding his anger. He was just a few shouts and kicks away from this situation being like the punishments for his very few tantrums when he was a little boy. Edward's control at this point didn't mean he wasn't angry and bitter.

* * *

The stand off at Reims in Ill-de-France ended almost as soon as it began. The King of France retreated back to Paris, hiding for the remainder of the battle. At that point, the English refrained from pushing further, keeping still towards the north. They wanted to protect their assets in Flanders more than humiliate the King.

Philippe le Bon's role, he hoped, was done. Be it traitor or protector, what was said was done. He pounded on the wooden door to Henry Percy's office.

"Enter, for God's sake. There's no need to pound that hard."

Philippe sighed inwardly and entered.

Henry Percy was leaning back in his chair, boots propped up on the desk. Despite his griping, he looked content and satisfied with the minor victories that were occurring in his regiment.

"Lord le Bon," he drawled upon gazing on the tall Burgundian, "This is a surprise."

"A short one, but one nonetheless, I suppose," Philippe replied.

Henry Percy straightened and scooted his chair closer to his desk.

"What is it you need?"

"I wish to no longer fight for the military."

Henry Percy didn't look pleased. He looked almost bored and angry at the same time.

"What?" was all he could quip.

Philippe chuckled, "I merely wish to return home. Be it Flanders or Burgundy, I don't much care, but fighting is no longer in my bones."

"In some ways it never was," Philippe added softly, his head bowing down.

Percy's brow furrowed before he let out a sigh through his nose, leaning back into his seat. He regarded Philippe le Bon intently. The governor stood still and tall, but he seemed ready for a long rest. Lines on his face told of the hard work and worry he had for his homeland and for the English forces.

"So you would not defend Flanders if the time arose?"

"Of course, I would defend. But I do not have enough in me to attack."

Phillipe le Bon drew closer to the desk, "Lord Percy, I wish to go home, see the birth of my child, and rest and rule in quiet. I have no desire or strength to go against England's trade with my charge, so that should not be a concern."

The shorter knight leaned back over his desk and folded his hands, "The King will surely have my head for letting you go without his consent, but I'm sure he will eventually consent to discharging you."

Henry Percy stood at his desk and continued, "Very well, Philippe le Bon. I hearby relieve you of your commands. You are discharged. You can go home now."

Feeling gratitude welling in his chest, Philippe le Bon, placed his right hand over his heart and bowed. He turned on his heel and left the office, trying to move too fast.

* * *

For the past day, Edward sat alone in his quarters at Bordeaux, thinking about his actions. His anger towards his father diminished, but there would always be that tension. He realized that letting the Maid of Orleans go was profoundly traitorous, but he was still satisfied that what he did was the right thing for her, his kingdom, and for himself. He was mostly angry at John of Gaunt, his rapscallion younger brother and Henry, also known as Hal. There was little doubt in Edward's mind that those two bore witness to his crime and snatched the opportunity to diminish him in the eyes of the King.

What those two didn't know was that the King created Edward in his own image. He made him strong, resolute, and very aware of his small island country. The elder King Edward would not depose his first son so easily. Even Edward didn't realize that the King's high expectation of him was the absolute sign of respect. The Prince was content with bearing the knowledge that he and his father would forever be locking horns.

There was a knock at his door.

Edward was in no mood for reports or guards.

Bitterly, he growled, "It's locked. If it weren't so I would not be here."

He glanced up from his seat on his bed when he heard jingling of keys and the lock turning. The door opened just a little.

Edward's eyes widened when he saw who it was.

A soft female voice called, "My young Prince, might I come in?"

The woman was relatively tall, with long dark hair, curls dangling loose from her circlet. Her face was round and pleasant with a small, smiling mouth, and large bright, blue-grey eyes.

Immediately, Edward's shoulders relaxed, guilt filling his face for snapping at the Queen.

The Queen was Phillipa of Hainault, queen consort to King Edward. While she was not Prince Edward's birth mother, she was his mother nonetheless. When he was young, Edward didn't interact much with the Queen. At least not as much as he wished. He was busy training and riding while the Queen's affectionate attentions were turned towards John and many other of the Prince's step-siblings. He always wished that Phillipa would sing or read stories to him, but it would not be so. The King frowned upon such frivolities to a training warrior.

Edward fully expected the Queen to ignore him or treat him as the King's "other" son. Thank the heavens she did not. While she didn't grant him the luxury of reading to him at night, whenever he was struggling with training or learning she was always there to support him, to tell him he could do anything.

And he always believed her.

"M-mother…" he responded, his voice catching in his chest. Queen Phillipa took that as a sign to enter, closing the door behind her.

"I assume you've been sulking, Edward."

"There isn't much else to do when you are locked in a confined space."

The Queen sighed, "Well, whenever I'm confined because of illness, I tend to let my imagination run, tell stories to myself, thinking of tales to further entertain your father."

Edward didn't respond, but the Queen knew he was thinking one word. "Childish."

She sat down next to him, smiling to herself, "You think it's childish, but it does brighten my spirit. I always know when your spirit has been lashed, Edward. Your father has that same look when he is down."

Edward grumbled, his depression getting the best of him, that he forgot himself in front of the Queen. Still, she took little offense.

"Are you here to let me out?"

She wrapped an arm around the Prince's large, strong shoulders, "That is not in my power."

Edward shook his head, trying not to look at his mother. The Queen reached over and cupped Edward's chin, turning his face towards her, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"That power is yours alone, my Prince."

Edward's brow furrowed in confusion. She was speaking cryptically, as was her habit.

"If I had the power to let you leave, would the dark and dull thoughts in your head go away?"

As much as he could try to respond, he couldn't. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"My thoughts would be pure at the thought of freedom."

At this, the Queen almost felt tears fill her eyes. Of all the things she wanted to give the Prince, freedom was one of things she could not give him. It was not in his destiny. Yet, her face brightened when she remembered the young girl he freed. It was something he did on his own. As horrific as the backlash was, he must've taken heart that he was certainly capable of grasping his freedom on his own.

"Sometimes, kings and princes must be human in order see and grasp their own freedom."

Edward nodded. He relation with Joan of Arc was most invariably human.

"Your father should understand. Despite being so domineering, he is known to be able to see the kinder side of himself. It just takes a little time."

The Queen paused and took a deep breath, "You remember when your father besieged Calais?"

The Prince nodded.

"After the city submitted, the wealthiest of the townspeople, the burghers were to come before the King. He had made plans to execute them, fearing the townspeople would see them as leaders and rally behind them."

"I suppose he did so," Edward said, his eyes cold, as if were already bored with the story. But to his surprise, the Queen shook her head.  
"He did not. I had asked them to spare their lives. And spare them he did."

Edward smirked ruefully, "I beg your pardon, mother, but what it seems you are telling me is that you still have the power to sway him."

The Queen laughed, "That is somewhat true, but by any sort of protocol, my beloved should've killed those men. He did not. He found kindness and mercy within his heart, because I showed it to him. As that woman did you. He went against his own title to prove himself capable of being his own self. Deep inside, Edward, your father wishes he could be kind and loving. But the crown is a heavy burden to carry."

The Queen reached inside her bodice and pulled out a silver chain, "This was the only free part of the pendant that is now in your chest. Here."

She dropped it in her son's hand. Edward subconsciously rubbed his chest, where the metal still remained.

"This…thing helped me escape," he confessed. "I used it to pick at my shackles. Never would I have imagined it would be buried in my skin. A part of me forever."

The Queen smiled, "Everyone's country is a part of them, but I doesn't take an ordinary man to dedicate their lives solely to it."

She rubbed the young man's back, in a soft gesture, "Have faith in yourself, love. Do what you think is right."

The gracious woman stood and left her prince to his thoughts.

* * *

A/N: Philippa of Hainault has got to be my favorite character (she's not even in the game...damn you Koei). She just has such a awesome dynamic with the stalwart King Edward III. If they make a sequel of Bladestorm, she's the first character they should add. Anywho...sorry for the long update. We are almost finished though, so I'm not going to give up on this.


	22. Part 22

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Koei and history.

Part 22

Prince Edward spent the night mulling over what his Queen had said. Her calm, thoughtful words. Those words and his thoughts of his night with Joan of Arc eased the rigid beating of his heart. His meditations on the matter only steeled his resolve. He would return to the field as the sole Prince of his people. The crown was his, and only his and he would carry it and the hard burden of the entirety of England with it.

He was the Prince. Human and accepting of his role.

But for now, he had to wait. Wait for an opportunity. He would break open the constricting shackles of protocol he placed upon himself, but he had to free himself from that door.

And that opportunity came from the most obvious of sources.

There was a knock and Edward stood, prepared to receive whomever was on the other side. A click soon followed and the door opened, revealing one of Edwards' relatives. Prince Hal.

Edward's eyes narrowed on the young man. He had been jealous that the prince had been able to shrug off the shackles of the kingdom and run around in the guise of a mercenary. Unfortunately, Edward was always wary of a man who enjoyed running a muck with little obligation.

At Hal's side was his voice of reason, Richard Beauchamp, a meek fellow, but calm and amiable.

His presence alone prevented Prince Edward from throwing Prince Hal out.

"Come to mock me in place of my brother?" Prince Edward growled low, the air in the room growing thick with tension.

Sure, it wasn't as tense as it would've been if it were King Edward, but the Prince's dark presence alone made Richard Beauchamp's hair raise on the back of his neck. What could Prince Hal be thinking baiting England's black lion?

"Odd seeing you confined to your room," Hal said with a sly smirk and a glare. "I would've thought you'd be executed for treason. Relations with England's enemy number one is surely punishable by torture at the very least."

The muscle in Edward's jaw quivered, "None of this is any of your business, young prince. Why don't you go and burn some town or start a brawl?"

All this did was cause Hal to arch his red brow. Surely the famed orator Prince Edward could think up of a better comeback than that.

"Lord Hal, please," Beauchamp whispered quietly, not wanting to be caught in between another royal feud.

"Listen to Lord Beauchamp, Prince," Edward replied. "Him and your wet nurse are the only reasons you haven't been bludgeoned to death by the French yet."

"Big talk," Prince Hal scoffed, daring to step forth, getting into Prince Edward's face.

Prince Hal, strong, manly, could be just as fierce as any royal. But he never knew the appropriate time to back down and think. He just challenged a lion into a deadly game that he more than likely could not win.

"Is your pride blinding you so much that you can't see how much of a failure you've just brought upon the crown and your kingdom?" Prince Hal's voice was low as he got into his relative's face. "What don't you just hand your crown over to France and flee with your lady love."

In a split second, Prince Edward pounced, wrapping his strong arm around Prince Hal's neck and pulling him to his body in a vice-tight grip that seemed to be cracking the red-head's very bones.

"I guarantee you I won't make the same mistake of taking the crown lightly," Prince Edward's words were low and deadly. His grip on his fellow prince grew tighter and tighter and Hal gave a short cry of pain.

"But the burden is mine alone to bear and I will bear 'till the very end of my torturous life."

The last words came out as a growl and finally Prince Edward crushed Prince Hal, cracking his back so hard that the red headed man passed out in his arms from the pain.

As Prince Hal crumbled to the floor, Prince Edward took his cloak and left his rooms through the open door, not even flinching at the fearful look Richard Beauchamp gave him.

Richard gave a nervous bow before rushing to Prince Hal's aid.

* * *

The next month was confusing for both sides but harrowing for France. Word got out that the King of France's madness had left him bedridden and he died in ridicule and despair. However, now that Joan of Arc returned to the ranks, the French Royal cause still maintained hope. King of France's favorite nobles, the Counts of Froix and Valois, maintained monarchical power, John of Valois taking the helm and role of king. As much as several soldiers disliked the fact that it would only mean more war, they felt obligated to still fight for France's crown, no matter who wore it.

As a result of stable leadership, a bulk of France's army under the direction of Froix led an assault on Aquitaine, planning on taking a few of the towns and surround Burgundy.

Joan led her forces into the foray and to the disappointment of Froix and De Rais, the English forces pushed back with the majority of its might. Even the King of England himself was leading a large charge of heavy horses. Joan assumed it was a cover.

She rode back to the east base in hopes of convincing Froix to avoid the King of England's position. Froix took heed….initially.

And yet when news of a large contingent charging forth from the south reached him he changed his mind. He wanted to make a move before this mysterious and powerful force from the south decimated most of his units seizing the south bases.

In the end it did draw them into a trap. La Hire was the leader of the charge up the gorge, not caring if the King of England had archers hiding on the hill.

The archers weren't hiding on the hill though. They were in the trees.

Hundreds of the finest shots in the world nestled comfortably in the large branches of the woods flanking the gorge. The arrows flew at the soldiers' backs sides and front. They were erratic with no direction. As a result the French frontal attack was left in disarray. La Hire had no choice but to pull back or die. Most of his men did as they turned their backs.

Meanwhile, Joan was sent south with the French knights to bulk up the southern forces against this enemy. Who ever this enemy was, they were applying hit and runs. Striking without a moment's notice and then waiting before making a move. It was apparent that the leader of the force broke his force into smaller and smaller pieces with each strike to confuse the French on the accuracy of their position.

Clever.

Joan, more of a beacon of morale, was not an expert on strategy. De Rais was the man for that. As such, she could only sit thinking long and hard before she made a move.

But France's large attacking force, became small.

Rather than risk more of France's finest soldiers, Froix ordered a formal retreat from Aquitaine and regroup in Ile-de-France for another attack in the future. The English didn't give chase, as they were purely on the defensive until more able troops arrived from Flanders and Normandy.

As the French troops pulled back and things settled, Joan and a small group of knights patrolled their position…waiting.

She instructed her guards not to attack, even as a small group of English knights came into view over the hill. At their lead, was a Prince in black armor.

A strange feeling flooded her chest as she beheld him once again, healthy and regal. A sense of calm filled the air; even the confused knights felt it.

"Maid of Orleans, we meet again. I wish it were in a better place," he said softly, a sense of sadness crossing his face.

Joan could only nod. She pulled her horse forward, away from her troops so she could have more privacy in her conversation with the Prince.

They could only stare, both at a loss for words.

Still, Prince Edward heaved a breath, "I…I want to thank you, though that may seem inappropriate given the situation. Without you I would have never found myself out of the dark abyss of my mind."

A wrinkle of joy and sorrow formed between her brow as if she didn't know if she should take his gratitude or coldly shrug it off. Joan wanted to speak to him, have one last civil conversation before undoubtedly bloodshed tore them apart once more.

Joan reached over and slid one of her plated gauntlets off her hand and dropped it on the ground by her horse.

Prince Edward's reaction was what she expected of a man bound by chivalry. He started, as if he were ready to hop off his horse and pick up her glove and hand it to her as an acceptance of an invitation from a maiden. It was considered bad luck for a maiden to pick up her own glove.

"If I misplace something, Prince. You may seek to return it at the mercenaries' tavern in Normandy," she said cryptically giving him a knowing stare, before turning her horse and leading her small group to follow the retreat.

Prince Edward watched her leave, issuing a hesitant sigh. He dismounted his horse, ignoring the confused looks of his knights as he bent down to pick up the glove. He smiled to himself.

A maiden shouldn't go on without her glove.

* * *

"Aaaand, BAM! Hit him in the back of ze head with ze shield," Georges shouted excitedly as he related his newest adventure to his brother. Marc smiled but nodded towards the table where a bunch of mercenaries were hanging around. Adrien and Karen were sitting face to face, staring at each other, the silence gripping them.

"What are 'zey doing now?"

Georges glanced back over his shoulder, "Hmm? Oh staring contest. You know how Karen loves contests."

At the table the two were trying their damndest to keep their eyes open.

"I'm tougher than you think," Adrien said, his eyes still open.

"Not something you say at a staring contest," Karen retorted.

"Either this or I kick your ass in a race again, but I didn't think you would want to feel that shame again," Adrien said, his voice low and casual.

"This isn't proving your masculinity-"

"Karen it doesn't need to be this way. We all know you have great big balls underneath that skirt-"

"Funny, because your father seems to appreciate them."

"And your lovely sister appreciates mine…with enthusiasm might I add."

The insults continued, but neither broke.

That was until a grey-haired man wove his way through the crowd.

Frederico's hand shot out and grabbed Adrien's ear causing the younger man to holler.

"OW! OW! OW! Goddammit!" Adrien yelled cringing. The mercenaries who bet on Karen cheered, for she had won the staring contest.

"No fair! Sabotage!" Adrien yelled, his eyes searing into his father's.

"Come off it," Frederico grumbled and jerked his head towards the doorway, "Your pupil has returned."

William arrived. He looked excited and shiny-eyed. He stood straight and definitely had a more confident bearing about him.

Georges slid off his stool and approached the young man, "Oi! Sheep boy-"

Adrien scooted in Georges place, shoving the archer out of the way, causing him to crash into some stools.

"Hey Will! You hurt? Did you get cut anywhere or knocked on the head."

William gave a huff of laughter, "No, sire. I am fine."

Adrien bellowed with laughter and wrapped his arm around the young boy's neck, rubbing his knuckles on the top of his head, "That's my, Will! Let me buy you a drink-"

The door opened and the group glanced up. Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans entered. This time, without an entourage. She was alone.

She smiled at the group, more specifically at her friends Adrien and Azrai. The table of mercenaries was silent, watching her pass without a word to the back rooms after she laid some coins on the table for the barkeep.

The barkeep gave the mercenaries a hard stare, as if ordering them to get back to what they were doing.

"That's weird. She usually says hi to her dear ol' Adrien," Adrien said letting go of William's head.

"Yeah, you always think you're special in her eyes," Magnus said.

Not a moment later the door opened to reveal a man.

He was a familiar man, but looked odd without all his usual black armor.

Prince Edward said not a word as everyone in the group of mercenaries watched in stunned silence as he, too, placed coins on the bar and headed to the back rooms.

They waited for several moments, unmoving and stiff.

Then they all scrambled out of their places and seats, fighting to get to the back rooms in a hurry.

Prince Edward quickly found the room and was greeted to a sight that stirred several emotions in his breast.

Joan of Arc was sitting on the bed, her armor off and dressed in only her tunic. Once again, they were even. No one had authority over anyone by their garb. Edward closed the door behind him. He held out the gauntlet, weighing it in his hand.

"This…" he paused as she glanced up at him, anticipation in her eyes.

"I believe this is yours," he said holding her gauntlet out.

"It is," she said softly, taking the gauntlet back and resting it in her lap.

For some reason, unexplainable to either of them, their breathing was short, like they both ran several yards up a hill. Well, they did rush to get to the tavern.

"Prince Edward-"

He held up a hand to stop her.

"Wait…just a moment."

Joan stared at the young man with curious eyes as he retreated back to the door. He wordlessly turned the handle and opened it.

In tumbled bodies of mercenaries. They all cried and fell in a pile onto the floor, Adrien on the bottom of said pile. Joan looked on in shock, feeling a tad embarrassed at being caught with the Prince in such a private setting as a bedroom. It had been obvious that they were listening in.

Adrien turned his head up as the rest of the mercenaries worked to right themselves.

"There's my denier!" he exclaimed as he picked up a fake coin, feigning obliviousness. "Been looking all over for it."

He stood, nudging the others back out, "Well, your majesty, my lady, we'll just…we'll just get going and leave you to it. I mean your discussion. That's right. Wow, this denier seems lucky who wants to bet me…"

He voice drifted as he and the rest of the mercenaries turned, cheeks red and walked nonchalantly back to the bar.

Prince Edward made sure that none of the mercenaries lagged behind before closing the door. He turned to Joan of Arc, laughing a little to himself. She noticed with a fluttering heart the Prince's face as he enjoyed himself, finding humor in an ordinarily embarrassing situation. For a moment, Joan considered joining him, finding his smile—his genuine joyful smile—entrancing.

"Let's hope they can keep themselves occupied," he said quietly as he strode over to the bed and sat on the edge, next to her.

The two sat in silence, frozen by what to say next. It was awkward. It was rather calming. No lust, anger, or sadness was between them.

"This war will last a while," the Prince said out of nowhere.

"I know," she replied with a tinge of sadness, even if she long accepted it as fact.

"I'm a cruel person in war, as much as I try to be otherwise. But as a person I—" he broke off, letting what he was trying to say fall to silence. "Whenever I'm able to be myself-."

"I know," she said softly. She heard Edward give a relieved sigh at not having to say it out loud. She smiled at him and took his hand. They resumed their vigil, feeling the quiet of the room, the sound of their soft breathing. No war, no violence, just quiet.

Edward broke the silence, "Regardless of what happened, or the circumstances. I am eternally glad to have met you."

Joan let her smile grow, her thumb brushing over the skin of his hand, "I do too. It's always nice to know that someone else out there feels the same strain, the same burden. In many ways it helped me find my way back and realize what I'm fighting for."

"That still doesn't make your position any easier," Edward replied. "You still have to obey your elite, as I have to obey my king. I will never be able to escape my king—my father's looming shadow."

Prince Edward tightened just thinking about it, his tall frame leaning forward, his long dark hair curtaining his pained expression. Joan slipped her hand out of his grasp and leaned against him, turning her head so she was facing the wall behind him, resting her head on his upper arm. She was reminded of her own duty and that how the crumbling of the sovereignty wasn't bad enough to stop the fighting. A part of her was proud that the French elite wasn't going to back down so easily in the face of the death of their king, but at the same time it was not resolving anything.

"Just take small moments like this and enjoy them," she replied, trying to not let tears well in her eyes. Edward was still allowing her to rest against him, and the girl inside Joan of Arc liked sharing this moment. This quiet serious moment.

Then Prince Edward shifted against her and she pulled away. He hesitantly grasped her shoulders, seeming very much like an awkward young boy courting his first lady love. Well, it was exactly like this.

Edward leaned in and captured her lips in his, kissing her, gently yet firmly. Joan felt her body flush a little, feeling the Prince's body meld against hers. She felt his hands drift up her shoulders, cupping her face as his lips became gentle and finally pulling away.

Joan stared at him with large watery eyes. She in turn lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, seeing him suck in a hesitant breath. Still, his face softened, and he even managed another smile. He reached into his pocket.

"Here," he said holding out his hand. He placed a silver chain in her hand, "It is what I had left of my pendant, it helped me escape, but I wouldn't have been able to use it if you hadn't placed it in my hand that night. I give it to you as a gift."

She stared at the chain, marveling at how light it felt in her hand. Most of the burden on it must've been the lion insignia. It was a beautiful silver that appeared to be a modest form of wealth.

"I wish I could give you something in return," she said softly, holding the chain to her chest. She looked up into his eyes. The chain was a part of him for a long time, but he gave it willingly. She couldn't think of something she could give him of equal value…

She paused and reached up into her blond hair, she plucked her lily from her tresses.

"It is not comparable to what you have given me, but it has always been my favorite flower. I hope you take care of this, just as I promise to take care of your chain."

Edward gave her a curious look as she placed the flower in his hand, but as he gazed at it he began to admire its beauty. It's delicacy. In many ways it showed the delicate nature of its owner's heart. He was never one to appreciate flowers or nature in general, but perhaps if he had time he could persuade a few of the servants to plant a few flowers in the garden at Bordeux.

He smiled at her, opening his other arm, leaning forward. Laughing a little, Joan placed the chain around her neck and wrapped her arms around him. His strong arms wrapped around her body. Comfort, once again, filled her and Edward began to feel so much at ease with this woman. It wouldn't last long, both knew, but it was worth it.

"I had best go to my men," Prince Edward whispered as he pulled away.

Joan nodded, "Yes. I as well."

Both let out a sigh. Edward stood up from the bed and Joan soon followed.

Neither leader really cared that people were staring; that people were slack jawed as they both left the tavern one after the other. A few of the mercenaries of course crowded over to the window, pushing and shoving for a good view of what was going to happen.

Edward mounted his black stallion and tucked the lily into his shirt. Joan did the same and trotted over to him.

"I guess…this will be it, your majesty," she said with a sense of light-hearted formality.

"I guess, Maid of Orleans," the Prince replied. There was a pause as Edward shook his head. "Perhaps not…"

"In terms of our circumstances, we may very well meet again. Somewhere along the journey. Hopefully one of us would have reached a peaceful resolution," Joan replied.

The Prince reached over and took her hand and…as a chivalric Prince does, kissed the back of it.

"Until, then, my lady," he dropped her hand, and turned his horse, trotting away, his hand raised in a farewell.  
Joan, feeling very much like a woman, a girl, bubbly and light, waved goodbye at the Prince.

Their paths would take them apart. That she knew and accepted. Yet, deep in her heart she knew she would see him again. As an enemy and as a friend.

* * *

A/N: Wow. Done. Done. Done. After what...6 years? Done. First fanfic ever. Done. Still, I'm not completely satisfied with the ending, but I tend to leave things open in my stories so...yeah. It was a long, long, fun journey, and I will miss writing this. But most of all I would like to thank all of my readers for following and supporting me. So this is a bittersweet farewell. But...if Koei manages to make a goddamn sequel to Bladestorm I will no doubt find another reason to write another story.  
In fact...I have another story in mind. But its jagged and more like a series of snippets instead of a long plot. Don't know if I'll write it, though.  
Anywho, it has been fun and has brought back good memories. Thank you all.


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